Hej jag heter Kalle, jag är 17 vårar

och
jag är trött på att tårar faller ner från min kind.
Det hände senast i torsdags morgon i klassrummet när nina skapat ett
instagram konto
som hette kalle balle kalle balle är ful.

Jag tyckte det var töntigt för vi är sjutton år,
men alla andra skrattade så vad ska man göra då ?
Läraren sa inget fast han allting såg
han bara twittra på om något som jag ej kommer ihåg.

Även om dem flesta mobiler är på surr
så hör jag allt twitter som pågår i detta ***.
och jag vet att det mesta inte är om mig
och jag vet att man inte borde bry sig men
jag bryr mig.

och det känns så motsägelsefull
för jag har alltid hört att det är någonting fint i att bry sig
att bry sig,
men nu när jag är större är det som att världen har växt med mig
och nu finns det för mycket att bry sig,
att bry sig om.

Hej jag heter Kalle och jag mår inte bra,
jag får notiser om att det är så ungdomar ska ha det.
Jag sitter i min plats längst bak i klassrummet till vänster,
när jag plötsligt ser en bild,  
jag tror jag ser ett mönster.
här uppifrån som utanför vårt fönster.

för vi är ett *** fullt av instängda fåglar,

det finns svanar som alla anar kommer växa och bli kända som alla vill vara
det finns kråkor som är stolta över att ta andras lycka/ det andra har , och det finns hackspettar
och duvor
gökar
ugglor,
och jag

och jag är rädd att jag är en pingvin eller en struts
jag vet inte om ni vet men av alla 10000 fåglar är just dem de ända som inte kan flyga
och jag tror jag är en pingvin
men kanske är det bra för jag är jag.

i once loved, and it's a shame to
agree to: better have loved and lost,
than to have not loved at all.
and as i browse the pages of
a saturday newspaper article
i like to think about virology applied
to mental illness...
and how they: life is ****
   story could really be a viral infection...
i don't know, it's not exactly
h.i.v.,
                oh i can contain my own
*******, i'm writing it on the flag
of colour white,
next time you get a brain haemorrhage
and then get diagnoses as schizophrenic:
i'll take you the crucifix on golgotha:
and imbed your head into
the cross... silent anger, contained:
and all the more concern for inhibited
humour... because as Borat said: jak sie mash:
i like. so please, don't tell me
you weren't gagging for the new golgotha...
because i wasn't...
         and i know, most of the time i have
my mouth attached to a head of a struś
gagging himself in a pit of sand...
yes an ostrich, the grand inspiration for
francis bacon attempts to redefine geometry...
oh coming out of communism and into
capitalism, for a kid?, can be a rough ride...
you don't know what ideology to appease
and what ideology to dictate...
         but i'm wondering whether or not
mental illness can have the potency to
        become virus-like...
     and drain,
and i mean: drain the soul out of you...
or whether man as mammal ever did exist...
or whether this new fashion of
feline existentialism can ever take off,
narratives about spending time with your
bonsai tiger... you'd really think japan was
a bit freakish... but it just has a large
ageing population and no one thinks
that euthanasia is a standard of humanism,
unlike ******* ***** into a face of
a woman... because right there, no
one died... if had any of those anemic
tadpoles actually lived...
    which brings this about to concern me:
so... we live for nine months, in, let's
basically say: in an environment without
oxygen, you got gills stashed in there
with that umbilical chord...
how can it ever be a miracle of birth...
that's what a god might say...
a human would look at it and say:
huh? you joking? i'm part of this horror?
     but not until you have a brain
haemorrhage and get diagnosed as schizoid
and then you think: so what was the point
of forgiving your enemies come into this?
      i can't believe it has become so, so personal,
to actually have this nagging, decapitated
doll-head on your shoulder telling you to:
repeat! repeat!
       i could literally be writing this in
Auschwitz and be like: Neddy needs a jumper
and a diaper... cos like that really needs
you to fathom the logic of assembling an
Ikea chair...
                          i mean, talking in the west
is a bit like farting into a hippotamous' nostril
for a ******* jackuzi effect...
  jack! i said ***! what's with this jacuzzi?
English, mein gott... confusion everywhere
you pigeon **** onto a top-hat.
by the way: everyone becomes
dyslexic on the word hippopotamus -
there's a reason why hippos exist...
        you want acronyms, you get shortening...
and yes, since english society has abolished
asylums, the society has become a breeding
ground for asylum instigators,
rich russians, bewildered chienese...
it's en masse, one, massive, cesspit...
   i mean the part where you don't get the brown
steamturd floating about like some
  celebrity you'd love to slap with much
more than mere paparazzi epilepsy...
because violence matters, esp into language games...
i was just asking, because there i was,
working on a roof on some construction site,
and she calls me up and says that
she hears voices...
          that's what i mean certain mental
delinquents and their choice of Samaritan...
  what does a roofer know about "voices"
if it doesn't equate to a bad conscience?
    that's why i'm wondering whether certain mental
illnesses have a virus-like profanity attached to them...
oh yes yes, the unison: bob marley: we're one
type of ******* to boot, like i'm supposed to get
a hardy and a 'ard on about it...
               ******* spoof of a light-bulb moment: PING!
and there... ain't that just dazzling?
phantasmagorical blurp at the feet of
Eros at Piccadilly Circus... my ego is a canon
that just simply shoots out viagras! and questions.
and yes... that's what we call being part
of the clown...
    and if there's a lord of flies...
what's the guy mentioned by beelzebub drunk
doing about the mosquitos?
           ah... boundless at the crucix, once more!
i'm just wondering where
does mental illness become solipsism,
  and when in fact it becomes a sort of virology...
   i can romanticise mental illness as a type
of solipsism, that it has a cage, that it can be contained...
but when mental illness goes outside of the novel,
strolls outside its cage and becomes
something akin to kissing a *****,
     i want to know.... because i swear i have been
affected by someone's mental illness being
hidden in the shadow of taboo...
   look... i'm ******* exfoliating with vocab!
        how can you become normal after someone
exposes you the symptom of "voices"...
that's demeaning given the past history of
having relationships with angels and demons,
that's like a neuter noun.... voices brings up
more concern for a pronoun-****-up than
a clear, noun association... angels, sure,
i could start looking more closely at pigeons...
demons, doubly sure, i could start
chasing bats...
              but i need to know whether mental
illness is worthy of taboo, i.e. it's worth
the category of being physical, in that it can be
contagious... whether it can act like a virus....
whether it can become an epidemic...
    and to be honest, i think it can,
but that seems pointless, since western society
has exchanged asylums for taboo...
                  look at me now,
a once budding roofer, reduced to writing poetry,
i might as well be an ******...
            safe-guarding king Solomon's harem...
oh sure, eunuchs were able to **** his *** slaves...
they were slaves themselves,
what they weren't allowed is to usurp
    the ******* crown of the king passing his
d.n.a., mind the frivolity, never the seriousness
of geneticist, yawning when their genesis was to come...
    i'd love to see hans andersen on the trail of
dolly... the sheep... and dolly really does become
a trinity of animal prior to human in the out-reaches...
what with laika (man's best friend)
and later fiztgerald... oh wait (man's worst enemy,
the money) Baker....
   thanks to de Sade and baron Sacher-Masoch
we could truly begin the orthodox occult of science...
   how the two patron "saints"
interpolate... it really is a dualism worthy of
dangling a crucifix... shame the first monkey in
space wasn't called Brian...
    i don't know, then, perhaps, the Caesars at
the coliseum wouldn't boast so much about
   the: lacking the ambidable thumb
(yes!) googlewhack no. 4 / 5 -
mandible thumb you idiot! d'uh...
but still, a googlewhack at the end of it...
type in: lacking the ambidable thumb
and, yes = 1 result in the google algorithm...
http://www.experienceproject.com/stories/Have-Thumb-Deformity/728760,
i call this the alternative version of, or rather,
the digital version of fishing...
     a tail like a thumb, the grip baron...
   but my peacocking the tongue shouldn't
be deemed as: straitjacket panic button prone...
  why would it?
****! he used the colour azure in his blue period,
that picasso did! chain him! gag him!
stash him in a kitchen stove!
i mean the inspection of genuine viriology
dynamic concerning mental illness,
the anti-thesis of solipsism, as the proper counter...
or should i say: membrane / barrier?
    can mental illness make ranks, i.e. spread?
like a virus can?
            well, if you take to explaining a zeitgeist...
ideology akin to communism and ****** can
become virus-akin... so i guess... yes...
it had to become a self-serving question easily
answered... mental illness can be very much
akin to a common cold... it's not really a case of taboo
being the lock-and-key to contain it...
nor the asylum... i suppose the best prescription
is the idea of solipsism...
              but isn't this grand,
i'm actually lethargic, coinciding with
    a tax on robots... and the French slashing
their 35 hour working weeks to 32 hours...
    and the Finns paying their unemployed
    (2K, placebo dosage for the actual
   237,000 unemployed) - a random €560 a month...
such are the times...
           it really has become a sort of
year 0 orientation lesson... because it's just
gagging for a guillotine to snap it awake,
so a decapitated head of Charles I at Whitehall might
say it's final farewell...
              and is mental illness capable of
being akin to a viral infection...
     it probably can... you probe the waters in an
environment of poets... they're good enough
to succumb to a white rabbit experiment...
              question is: do you apply the rule
of solipsism or an actual asylum? in a post-asylum
society, i don't think there's an option
whether solipsism should, or shouldn't be used
to counter the more serious form of the flu...
   but, as ever, it comes down to the age-old
cartesian model of dualism... or as any siamese twin
might attest: i'm not that further away from
my sister as you might think...
  the dualism that served so well for so many years
to appear "peaceful" became a real dichotomy...
  the ergo suddenly failed... when people realised
that the fact "i think" didn't necessarily
precipiate into "i am"... given what the media is
interested in, and how many people become missing
and all that... the numbers were too much
for player uno to simply give up the canvas
of newspapers and t.v. to some poor schmuck
trying to impregnate his canvas on which he worked
his paint-brush (power) and paint (wealth) onto...
   the cartesian ergo simply failed...
    oh sure, the other two facts worked... but they
didn't necessarily congregate universally
in the crux of ergo,
        i was told it would be a monsoon of thought
established on earth... instead i got a light-shower
   and the Gobi desert.
in the same way the subconscious exists
as a fake of the trinity...
           to me it has no need for a chisel...
as a realm... treat the conscious as a realm
akin to Hades, and it becomes wholly
de-personalised... there's not individual in it
that might require it... it's a covert mechanism
of subterfuge... but if we're talking
making rabbit heads with our hands
   in the shadow form... we're talking
nothing but puppeteering...
   or like saying, let's create an evolved
version of the definite (the) and the indefinite (a)
article...
                      well... there must be
a direct and an indirect article...
                well there is...
con                                 and sub-con,
       un-con is an indiscriminate article...
meaning: what are the evolutionary gains
of dreaming, given the cinema?

Det var länge sen, vi såg varandra
En dag som jag aldrig kommer glömma
Vi satt på soffan hos mig, det var lugnt då
Två själar i ett ***, verkligen lyckliga och fria
Åtminstone, jag minns att det kändes så
Vi tittade på en film, vars titel jag inte kommer nämna
För att det är för svårt att komma ihåg detta
Så svårt att fokusera
När det finns en sån tjej som sitter så nära
Ett ansikte, en kropp, en sinnesstämning, idealiska
Jag kunde inte sluta begrunda
Jag håller på att ordna och skriva
Allt som virvlar just nu i min hjärna
”Jag har tur!”, kan jag väl påstå
För sen, vi gick till sovrummet och fick komma
Så nära som natur kan tillåta
Under en natt som blev den tredje och sista
Innan du bestämde dig att flytta tillbaka
Nu, känns det konstigt för att du är borta
Är det ett riktigt minne eller drömde jag?  
Livet är som en berg- och dalbana
Som man inte riktigt har kontroll på
Fast, det finns en sak som du kan göra
Varje dag, ta ett steg baklänges bara
Utan att titta över axlarna
Titta hellre upp på himlen, du kan gärna stirra
Kanske ser du åter en hund som rider en sköldpadda
Tänker på mig och börjar skratta
Tills du är tvungen att sluta gå
För det finns nån som står i vägen
Nån som kanske gjort detsamma
Med ögonen fast på molnen
Om jag skulle vara helt ärlig, måste jag avslöja
Att i hemlighet, hoppas jag det blir jag
Det låter självisk förstås, det vet jag
Men det är väl min dikt så jag får bestämma
Resten av historien kommer jag inte berätta
Det är bara att tänka sig
”Den som lever får se”.

St Henry was for Finland, and before he took the land
He wandered through Uppsala with a beer-mug in his hand.
For through his understanding of the Finns and what they are
If you should serve him sahti, it must be in a jar.

St Patrick was for Ireland, and before the snakes were out
He ate a steak, and washed it down with pints of Guinness stout.
For since he was from Ireland, people shouldn't make mistakes:
Unless you give him Guinness, then you mustn't give him steaks.

St Louis was from France, and before he was the king,
He bought champagne and cheeses and he ate like anything.
For since he was from France, I must say it once again:
Unless you give him cheeses, then there must be no champagne.

There she was again
The girl in the sandbox
Her brown hair cut short
Wearing pink shorts
And no shirt
I'm not entirely sure she's a girl

"Do you want to play with me
We can go and get my toys
And build sandcastles, play hide and seek"
She frowned at me and I wondered
Does she know how to talk
She muttered and walked away
#
"My mum sent me
She said that we should walk together"
It's early morning, -25*C
"Ok" said the girl from the sandbox
We were 8 years old
I can count the words she has spoken with one hand

It's nearly dinnertime
Where is the girl
You know the one from the sandbox
Crazy thing, she told me
Not to vacuum clean snow off the floor
And she gave me a puppy pendant
#
Now I don't live here anymore
And I don't have her number
They call us "Foreign Finns"
But sure thing if I go
To her parents house
I'll find her

Knock knock says the door
Her mum opens up and hugs me
Takes her phone and says
"Guess who's here"
And without hesitation
She says "Lily. I'm coming"

The girl from the sandbox

hard to play the idiot; likened to Mr. Bean
taking the role from
            Angus Daily into a Blackadder
   hurrah who? ha, ha, ha!
        my eyes never
left me baffled - or washington prone:
*** to a stirrup - furthermore,
  or Rushmore:
Atilla with an entourage
worthy of Genghis: of prone gravitas -
i too santa's little helper
and sinatra's
five p.m. flamingo strut's
worth of martini -
when said slavic eye then lessened
germanic white-boy fisheyed to boot...
i mean less binocular and more concentrate...
      but
there's me as a fifth of Nevada in Siberia
that's always the: ****! we sold Alaska!
Nicolai! oh Nicolai! Alaska! ****! or
  of what was the Crimea, of what is the Kremlin:
k, c, k, c, s, c, k, c, k, c, Vlad, s, t, u, v, k, c, s,
Rasputin, k, c, k, c, Boney M....
i'm still fidgety about the third ethnicity in
europe... i have to gather them attune to being
southern slav, or pseudo-turkish,
Finns, Latvians and Greeks... sounds like
falafel: all guidance to the subsequent reprimands
of necessarily tongue-tied whiplash -
gravitas with the kink and jeopardy of a gimp
fetish on the loose.

Kaiser Clown

borrowed shoe:
stolen foot.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

auf die frei zungen ich kennt -
   (of the three tongues i know) -
ich kennt zwei
    und kennen eine:
    (i know two and know of one):

auf die frei: ich lieben dieser
                        äußerst
(of the three: i love this utmost)...
                      
    in my youth i spent a good deal of time
watching Disney's Robin "fox" Hood
cartoon in German, somehow it rubbed off
on me...

      i was never born with anything even remotely
resembling the love of the English language...
can there be a love akin to the Anglophile
that excludes the love of the language?
i love everything English except for the language...

each day i'm slowly planning my escape
into womb of the mother of the isles that
was first spoken in Saxony...
         tired Bavarians? tired Pomeranians?
but the Saxons were a landlocked people
who gave them the courage and adventurous
spirits to claim the seas with more than
oars and steer the winds with
sails?

      English didn't come to me as some
poor Romanian kid listening to current pop music
or back then, early 1990s... movies from Hollywood...
i didn't want to speak gimmicks...
i was ****** into the deep-end of speaking this
tongue by starting off a mute...
even with the influences of cartoon network
none left a too great impression on my ears
as the German version of the Disney cartoon
of Robin Hood...

   even after watching the English version many years
later... i can still hear the German dubbing
and i can't escape it...

auf die frei zungen ich spre(s)chen es
mit ein konkurs auf substantive...
(of the three tongues i speak it
with a bankruptcy of nouns)...

        at least i have made progress with predispositions
and conjunctions:
i am better coordinated...
but how... how can one be an Anglophile
without a love of the language?
i can adore the way the English care for
the countryside... how traffic is managed...
how taxes are collected how foreign cultures
can slowly integrate and everyone can feel
somehow, seemingly at home:
even if the natives do not for a while...
but without a love for the language
i cannot be a true Anglophile...

                the beauty of Shakespeare disintegrates
when a simple German neo-folk is played to me...

   in der zwölften stund (sage vom untersberg)

- in der zwölften stunde -
at the twelfth hour
- wenn die raben fliegen um den berg -
when the ravens fly around the mountain
- tun sie lautstark kunde -
they loudly proclaim
- von des kaiser macht und tagewerk -
the emperor's power and legacy
- solang der kaiser schlafet -
as long as the emperor sleeps
- tief drunt' im dunklen bergensschloß -
deep down there in the dark mountain *****
- solang fliegen auch die raben -
the ravens will fly
- hoch über seinem marmelschloss -
high above this castle of marble...

   no words in English, and their meaning make much
for... however simple they might be in German:
the simple fact that... they're spoken in German!
das: sie sind gesprochen im Alt...
    
it is only natural that i sought out the origins of
the English tongue in German,
as much as i am not interested in the etymology
of designated word:
i could never be this youth exposed to too much
English culture wishing to sing pop songs
or utter single line pin-pointers from
films: ehrilch mein schatz,
   ich tun nicht ein pflege
   (frankly my dear,
    i don't give a **** / care)
    or... ich wille wieder (i will be back)...

so the indentations of learning English in a later
developmental stage of language acquisiton
didn't rub off on me: as it does on people
with accents of their mother tongue
who never lose it... and merely culturally appropriate
English as a spoken tongue of culture
and not a "cultured" tongue...
native tongue: a shape-shifting accent
of an educated "class"...
    even today! West Ham was playing Everton,
Toffees... ******* Scousers... Liverpool dwelling folk...
two younglings asked me to speak to one
of the managers who took their banner away
expressing disgruntlement with
how the football club was being managed...
huh?! am i still in England...
i have an easier time understanding Scots
than i have understanding anyone from
Manchester or Liverpool!
i can't understand them!
maybe that's why the Scots are like the Irish:
they come from a proud literary history...
oh... i spoke to an Irishman today at
the football game... woke up at 3am to come
to the game... i understood him perfectly...
i can understand a Scot and an Irishman...
i wouldn't be able to tell you an Irishman
from a North Irishman...
but i could tell you decipherable English
of the Scot and the Irishman from
an undecipherable, local, "polyglot"
mishandling of the English language with
such local accents and idioms as that of
Liverpool or Manchester...
can't understand the *******: even if i tried...

obviously i can't relate to a love of Russian...
as they might say in Poland:
better 6 years of **** rule: by fire...
than the subsequent how many decades it was
under the rule of the Soviet rule: by ice...
a slow burn of war is more demoralising
than a quick stretch of spandex and all hell
and all fury and all hearts united
than this scuttling of rats and shadow-bullets
shot from shadow-pistols!

of course i would naturally side with the Germanic
side of my upbringing:
i have no itch for rekindling any Russian brainwashing!
and i know that the Germanic side of "things"
has become a breeding ground for feral creature-oids
that resemble as best cuckoldry and at worst
the shadiest parts of the ***-scenes in Amsterdam...
but... bone-headed Russians and their
pride... that Russian pride... it's one of those intoxication
liquid i want to drink any of!

hmm...
   perhaps because i know English as a utility,
there's nothing romantic in it for me:
i buy bread with it, i ask: i used to ask for directions
in it, i ask someone in that conventional
formal way how they are and hope for the less *******
that most Americans reply with: how all is dandy
and it's all Texan blue above and not
the grey of the island skyline...

i did think for a moment: i should haven taken a step
further and attached myself to Swedish...
or Norwegian...
but then that's what a German would do...
as an Anglo-Slav it was only natural for me to succumb
to the allure of German...
the natural dynamo...
i fall on German and the German falls on Swedish...
or Danish...
**** knows who the Scandinavians fall on for
inspiration... the Finns?!
after all: the Finns are somewhat Scandinavian:
more Inuit people than...
        
one is a tongue one learned: or, was rather thrown
into learning...
but it's unlike a learning from it being passed on...
no one passed English down to me...
i'm a first generation immigrant...
i learned the tongue in the same time
as my parents learned it...
unlike all those 2nd generation immigrants
who were born in this land
and learned this tongue outside the dynamic
of their parents learning the language:
the only difference being...
i kept the mother tongue, the native, intact...
by refusing my parents' claim that:
if i only spoke English at home,
the English i acquired from being schooled
in the English educational system...
if i forwent me speaking my native tongue
to them: their English would somehow improve...
that they would, somehow, miraculously not have
a foreign accent!
as a child i picked up three majors things...
Catholicism wouldn't take me... i might have been
baptised without my consent...
but i had all the necessary obligations to
give or not give my consent when it came to confirmation:
i haven't been confirmed... i head too many
Gnostic Heresy texts as a teenager...
their idea that somehow i would mistreat my native tongue
in order for them to gain something for it...
like most Pakistani 2nd generation children...
perhaps, maybe... a few slip through the netting...
who still pride themselves on knowing Urdu...
most? with their loss of the mother tongue pick up
their own idiosyncratic accents within the confines
of English: they are literally children robbed
of bilingualism by their parents...

i mastered it and by mastering it found it with
shortcomings that only the tongue i was born
with could expose...

today this alpha looking male sat next to me on the train
and spread his legs... smiling... listening to music...
**** me mate... how much spreading do you need to do?
what i found:
poetry, best read when commuting...
i'm building up a complimentary package for a friend
of mine... she sent me macadamia nut shells
and dried pineapple and honey and...
a feather... i said to her: i will not send you anything
before i compliment a feather you sent me with a feather
of my own... i went cycling two days prior
and: imagine my luck! some magpie... ELSTER...
was either shedding her feathers or was in a fight...
i picked up about half a dozen ELSTERGEFIEDER...
magpie feathers...
on the train... you're better off reading a book
of poems than a newspaper...
the optics are much more clarifying...
none of the claustrophobia and oczopląs
               of a tightly-knitted (printed) column or opinion
paragraph... spread out text...
  poetry books as an alternative to reading newspapers
in transit... that's how i imagine "it"...
once upon a time newspapers were tightly knitted
beyond the scope of the printed paragraph:
it would require the solitudes of Sundays
to sit in calm and quiet and read them...
these days: that tabloid press with headers
and exploding wordings for the newly acquired
people of literacy: the addition of pictures...

nothing new, therefore nothing old...
mein herzenskummer ist was giBt
                   der Sonnenaufgang seine
      rinnsal auf schüchtern farben...
und! unt!
        der Sonnenuntergang seine
    busen-auf-verkörperung:
                auf: das nie vergeht!

                   how easily the displaced spiders...
turn to new architecture of the spider web
should their former and no sooner
than sooner: distraught with the havoc
of a man's quill of fingers having to differentiate
walking into a spider-web confusing it
with: are my eye-lashes camel's now?!

some shifts at work are terrible,
esp. when working with two females...
everything is wrong...
even telling after-work jokes is wrong...
talk of fish fingers... loads of ketchup...
that's wrong too...
top it all of this one is joking about the other
and the other is lesbian
and she has a new girlfriend
and fish-fingers: well... i am a man and i never
equated the smell of ****** with fish...
i know that tadpoles and ****...
but never fish... fish fingers... *******...
ketchup? i joked: that time of the month?
no laughter... no laughter...
if women are joking about their horrid ****
i better not be asked to, ******* joke!

better working with mute men on zombie mode...
i'm already a year behind having my social medial
stalked... sure... they can stalk me when they
figure out my middle name and some Slovak
diacritical markers... not until then...
just because i look silly when ice-skating
and everyone has seen the video doesn't
mean i'll give up my internet presence so easily: so...
i have a project aligning myself to German
so close to my heart i can find it forgiving...
to desire in the heart-of-hearts
to: **** this tongue enough to speak it when drinking!
because i find that Wilhelm was sort of right...
about how Germany was no empire
expect something on the continent
that gobbled up a part of
the Polish-Lithuanian Commonwealth...
because the Germans were an established people
and there was no sailing spirit in them...
after all: one might be inclined to think they
wanted to upkeep the romantic, familial orientation
of Christianity...
but the powers, the colonial powers at be...
whether the French the English or the Spanish...
who does, Christianity belong to, these days?
one might have asked the same question
before Christianity spread to the Nord Lands...
prior to its prior occupation with the Syrians
and North Africans and the Greeks...
Romans as a side joke?
who are the current mass of Christianity if not
the former colonies of the English
the Spanish and the French?
i know of Christians in South America from
the cross being dumped by the Spaniards with
vain hope... vain hope of the French in Africa...
and the English in Africa... and North America...

at least the Germans didn't... spread this...
Christianity might be allocated to about 12 individuals
within the confines of a single generation...
beyond that? money-grabbing money-laundering:
a religion with only the sole focus on LOGOS
while reading up on Zhuangzi you have several
other, dutiful terms to meditate on...
i might have been smitten by Hindu thinking before
being doubly smitten by Taoist dialogues...
one still remains a categorical imperative...
outside the realm of dialogue:
the best way you can help the world is
to help the world forget you and you in turn forget
the world...
obviously i'm doing X and counter-X...
i'm writing... by extension of writing i "want"...
or is that: "i" want to be remembered...
but thinking is no telekinesis nor is speaking
any telepathy...
             i speak... like today... i get this oddity of looks...
first she asks me: oh what should i reply
to my friend... just been to a Hen-do...
strippers? oh sure... there were strippers...
first time married? no... second... so what's the ******* point
of a hen-do? cluck x2 laid eggs x4?!
  
so her friend sends me a photograph of her newly bought
dress... laces... or whatever the ******* call
a would-be reimagined-curtain...
i tell her: she could pull it off... if she was a size 0...
the lace could really add dimension and curves to
a thin body...
to hide the skeleton...
but you know what would work for her?
a meringue dress...
you know the type? a one piece...
cut just above the ***** line...
simple: smoothed over... no patterns...
all the way from the cleavage to the feet...
so then she shows me her wedding dress...
it cost her £130 while her friend paid over £2000...
exactly what i was describing...
she just sent an AWW and tried to deflate the question,
or simply avoid it...
yeah... she looks like a flayed torso...
because... SHE's fat...

           eat all you want and as much (perhaps)
but at least burn it off...
if there's no work in the fields:
then there's no work in the fields...
but there's enough rubber burning on the bicycle
to escape the monotone drudgery of
urban living... as i found today,
upon Hook Lane cycling up to Chigwell Row...
there's no need to eat excessively...
no comfort in all that fat without
a leather chair or enough warm clothing...

treating people as these existential morons:
conceptualizing the non-existence of free-will is one thing,
another: to debrief them: life is without agency...
a choice-less Darwinism where
jelly-fish are somehow automated: sprouts:
well... no other life could or would ever be!
people without free-will is one thing:
the shackles of the dynamic of choice...
one choice sets you free, subsequent choice shackles
and inescapable binary of freedom-no-freedom...
science governing the flip of a coin...
but... people, robbed of any sort of agency?!
of self-authority over themselves:
so, so easily mangled and mishandled leaving
their fate unto... no fate: double sure...
unto others?!
i watched a few horror movies in my lifetime...
none seem as horrifying as this +mundaneness
of the horrible leftover: forgotten...

i must have a Germanic attitude toward these matters...
i was born into the living spirit of the ****** tongue,
the membrane in situ staging the conflict
of Rome vs. Greece...
or Germany vs. Russia...
i see no end to it...
i was born from the Germans trying to burn out
the Jews from "my" lands
while the Russians trying to subdue the flames
all the while...
i was still borne from a history that required
a solitary antagonist...
less so an protagonist of solitude...
either way: i was going to slither my way through...
like water like serpents...
wie wasser wie schlangen...

mein herz bricht aus hungrig flammen
als ich stürzen blind Samson's
already toppled temple
            
i know i that i will not write the sort of beauty
that's poetry that's everything that's
Zbigniew Herbert's
Godly Claudius
the Game of Mr. Cogito
Mr. Cogito observes his face in the Mirror
the Seventh Angel
   (my favourite of the angels listed?
Dedrael - the apologist and cabalist)
   to name but a few of the poems...

it brings such relief that i can't bring such
beauty into this world: perhaps if my mind was
not muddled by the utility of English
and my romance with German -
perhaps but only perhaps:
i don't even know why i started to write poetry:
maybe it was my lowest ebb
psychotic running on steam and pretend
legs between Edinburgh, Glasgow,
London, Dover, Athens, Belgrade,
Katowice...
                    walking into a bookshop buying
a copy of Rumi's verses...
buying Dostoyevsky's the Brothers Karamazov
and, just by chance... Bukowski...
what was so supposedly special and hiding
within the poetry of this man?
absolutely nothing: i was mad enough
to try it then and to keep at it:
not really knowing why...
  
compared to Zbigniew Herbert i write trash:
perhaps i read too much fiction,
even autobiographical prose: prose in general:
i don't know how to shut up the ten mouths
on the tips of my fingers but
i know how i can seem menacing
on a shift at work... hood pulled over my head
leather gloves squeezing each knuckle
asked by the atypical extroverted woman
whether something is wrong...
pulling my hood up, smiling, yet still being
compared to the grim reaper...
jokes aside: someone is counting the time...

a welcome break from Knausgaard...
this little safe-haven of poetry read in transit...
finally! something that's not mine
and not in English!

that's the terrible difference between men and women...
going to the Fulham shift i was sitting
behind three women... i'm guessing two were
newly arrived brides of war from Ukraine
who also picked up a Thai-surprise bride...
birds sound chirpier and more pleasant to talk
to... sitting behind them reading my little poetry
book... with a magpie's feather for a bookmark...
the women talked... about?
photographs... filters... instagram models...
plastic surgeries of people wanting to look
like their photographs...
impossible dreams! dreams of women...
and some womanized-men...
on my way back... same book same bookmark
and a young man sat down next to me...
put on some decent music i could
make out through the headphones...
angled his horizon to look over my shoulder
as to why i was reading a book with so much
open space and so little words...
not any fiction, not some constipated prose
of imaginary conversations...
and i could feel his leg pressing against mine...

perhaps i am not gay but i can't imagine
being friends with a woman...
i truly can't... there's either *** for me: with women...
or there is friendship with men...
with each man i meet i can achieve this
transcendent: otherwise unpackaged will
of subduing and seduction that only a woman
can provide me... but a conversation with a woman
is painful: at least for the majority of times:
there might be a special place for a woman
who might not necessarily:
but is probably older than me and shares
the same sentiments as me...
probably lives far away and thinks that hand-writing
is like exposing herself all naked...
will go out of her way to send me a feather of a bird
from over 3000miles away...

while i will send her a necklace with a single amber
stone on it... or i will send her a crab's pincer with a hole
drilled in it and ask her to buy some leather-string
to have herself a second necklace...

at work Stephanie the supervisor had to make it adamant
for me alone to know that i would be her Alpha...
whatever the hell that meant...
Alpha... well yeah... because i do try to ensure that
everyone is treated fairly...
the Asians boys of Bangladesh and Pakistan caved it...
this work or this cold of England
finally bit them...
     it's an unrewarding work if you don't have
an escape plan, like i do...
i'm always flying to other pursuits outside of this
work... customer service... being polite to people
that might not be polite to you or simply ignore you...
but even my standards i thought they were
taking it too far...
but i made a pact with them...
they took out a bottle of Jack Daniels and poured
out shots... if there's going to be a snitch among
us... it will be the man who does drink...
so when asked if i'd like a shot i replied: why not!
the weather calls for it... whiskey to warm up!
mixer? oh no no... straight!
plus... you can't mix Jack Daniels with Fanta, can you?
a few new colts were bullied into peer pressure
of silence, asked if they wanted a drink: said no...
me? i had a drink... i'm not snitching...
well i did when Stephanie was coming round
when i just said: nothing about the drinking...
but if there are 7 of us standing in one place...
but i'm the only one giving any customer service
by giving directions and good-evenings while
they're just standing talking to each other,
having a good time? apparently some people still
can't internalise being drunk for their own
self-amusement, drinking is somehow: getting together...
clearly these boys haven't been alone
and drank a litre of whiskey each and every single
night for months on end...

what really bugged me is when they took out a spliff
and smoked it between the four of them...
even as the customers were coming to see
Tottenham beat Fulham 1 - nil...
oh for ****'s sake... it's one thing having a cheeky sip of
whiskey on a cold day to warm up...
but to also smoke marijuana on a shift?
in full view and easily scented air of winter
before customers?
these guys don't want this ****** job...
thank god none of them are either bus drivers
or train drivers or plumbers for that matter!
maybe doctors who forgot to take out a pair of
scissors from a patient's body when
the patient is getting stitched up?

the worst i ever did was drink the night before
and sobered up on my way to work...
ah... not to mention that one time this
girl tried to scout her paranoia from prior relationships
with abusive alcoholic boyfriends onto me:
a man she just met... pampered with an array
of chemicals whether that be a cologne or this alcohol
containing face spray...
who i later tried to sooth by bringing her my homemade
weisserwein... cloudy... like any weisserbier...
chirpsin'... 3 way conversation conspiracies...
until the lie stood on dwarf's legs rather than stilts...
and to think: no i wasn't thinking seriously about
getting into a relationship with her...
she tried to get me fired for "apparently" drinking
on the job! a person she just me...
neurotic ******* *****... it's good that i showed her
what she would never, ever... get...

the difference between men and women...
the shift finished... prior to finishing we already knew
that there was some major ****-up on the tube...
the signals went down...
no Circle line, no Hammersmith & city services...
no services on the District line
from East Ham to Earls Court...
ergo? you'd think there might be a northbound
service to Edgware Rd. from Putney Bridge...
nope... Earls Court is a 4 x 4 junction...
sure... there was the southbound service
from Putney Bridge to Wimbledon...
and whatever service that's a station after
Earls court toward Richmond and Ealing Broadway...
as i'm guessing from Upminster to East Ham
and from one station after Earls Court
to Edgware Rd....
this girl was supposed to come with me
to Stepney Bridge from either Romford or Chadwell
Heath for the shift...
i was 15 minutes late because i felt like getting some
tea and an almond croissant...
she was? an hour late...
by the end of the shift when the transport invonvenience
was building up we went for our debrief
and she was all irritated in the eyes
when she wanted to get an Uber to Hammersmith
or whether it was she thought about going
without telling me: where that would cost her £50+
quid...
                  so when i told her...
i'm not going down the Putney High Street rail connection
because: (a) look at the ******* congestion
of the crowd and (b) i don't need to go to *******
Waterloo because that's ******* south of the river...

mmm hmm mmm... what, should we do?
i told you... i'm either walking or getting the bus 220
to Hammersmith...
debriefing over: she stayed behind for banter
and all the things that hinder an extrovert,
esp. a female extrovert... un-decisive, fatalist,
everything just ******* happens by some whisper
from astrology...
    Aquarius said to Libra that the waters were
about to spill... i ****** off from the stadium
like a hart... shook hands with the managers
thank you goodnight... as i was walking out
toward Hammersmith some young stewards were
shuffling really quickly it all looked very much like
they might be scratching vinyl...
i asked... you heading to Hammersmith?
yes yes... see! that's i like to see!
male to male camaraderie...
we have this unconscious motif of: from *****
you came to ***** you shall return...
it's a bit senseless to go to war these days...
less senseless when you're trying to get from
point A to point B...
there was about 40 of us running for the bus...
amongst us? 1 woman...
***** AHOY!
   obviously i left this girl behind...
her other option was asking one of the managers
to giver her a lift... ******* free-loader...
by the time the manager would have clocked out
all the other parties i would have wasted an hour...
just to get a lift... and then what?
stranded with her? even though we weren't going
to the same point B?
   i left with the *****-mentality... happy too:
because i could read my poetry book in the prized
possession of solitude... and no solitude...
because given the hour... something freakish was
bound to happen on the train or tube...
and it did... some proper English boys talking about
not wanting to take a nightcap in Romford heading
all the way to Shenfield joked when this guy started running
down the train carriage...
and those SKANKS so drunk who were blocking
the doors: subsequently delaying us
subsequently not catching their train blah blah...

well... just as today happened: talking so freely to men,
boys, young men, first point of "concern" / conversation?
establishing "taboos" or habits...
you smoke? you drink? first time you got drunk...
when did you start smoking marijuana first?
and then a natural progression into...
so... what music do you like... just... so naturally?
with women? even with Francesca,
this butcher boy of a lesbian...
it's a cul de sac sort of conversation...
she only talks about herself,
even today i received a text from her...
i broke up with Natalie... broke up i.e. she met her
on Tinder... she stayed round her house
for three nights... Natalie made her lunch for
work one time... cooked dinner another time...
4 days and nights they dated... already broke up...
there you go... Tinder-dating-shoplifting hearts...
window-shopping romances...

free market capitalism? sure... but not when
capitalism overstretches its influence
and we're worse off than the despairing existentialist:
PHILOSOPHERS of the 19th... the precurosor
fabric... i'd say the 20th century existentialist
philosophers had it easier...
but anyone in the 21st century, thinking, even remotely:
would be hard pressed not to express something
of substance bugging all of us:
no great war, no great upheaval,
proxy wars, the Thespian dictatorship over all
the other arts (with the exception of pop music, perhaps)
and the journalistic juggernaut of the quickened
availability of almost anything and nothing...
the free market of capitalism having invested
in creating this... Frankenstein in pieces...
this IKEA ******* LEGO model of a Frankenstein:
but at least Frankenstein bothered to construct
the entire monster rather than creating this
shattered Pandora's box... left in pieces and in
some realisation of a Copernican West...
in a Copernican East... Copernican "west"?
there's a "west" without a setting sun?!
up in outer space?
                         capitalism all fine and dandy:
but not outside the realm of a couple worrying about
how many kettle and toasters sets they will
have to buy during the year or even the wardrobe
needs revisions, or whether it might be worthwile
to change the wallpaper in the living room,
or what movie to watch on a date night at the cinema...
all of that is gone when the free market made
us profile ourselves... with some of us being pushed
so far as to fake cubist like pictures of ourselves
and subsequently implement plastic surgery to
double-fake ourselves...

the shrapnel-shelving-of-self...
it's like people are a library with no alphabetical order:
free market on psychology, morphed beyond
any concern for dreams: if there were any
as the luxury of the Freudian rich...
this... what happened to historiology in the modern
sense as stressed by Heidegger?
a study of history of the people by the people
or at least by individuals... morphed into this grotesque
pop psychology: archeological mapping back
to the primordial Pharisee of Ape and Aping...
farce: Darwin's Curtain of History...
   will we ever remember the beauties and horrors
of centuries from the 16th to the 19th?
no... everything of said years is nil: null...
because the ape's origins quickly morphed into
the man hunched over a microwave adamant in his
belief that... the carbon footprint of producing
a kilogram of chicken meat somehow, somehow would
"save the planet" than producing a kilogram
of tomatoes... given that a kilogram of tomatoes would
only yield a fraction of the necessary calories
than a kilogram of meat... and still the growing
of one kilogram of chicken would cost the planet
less than growing a kilogram of tomatoes...
who needs tomatoes in winter?!
eat, your, ******* root vegetables! carrots boyo! carrots!
but chickens don't need solar energy, nor suntans,
nor greenhouses... chickens cluck just as much
in winter as in summer... and eggs are a year round
product... plus you only need a barn in winter
to keep chicken!
tomatoes rot... chickens? they grow old and die...
until they grow old they still produce eggs...
and when they die? you eat them...
you can't exactly call a chicken rotten if it isn't already
days X already dead, can you?
it might not be as fresh... but...
ugh... no wonder

Zbigniew Herbert: from mythology (of Rome) -

   in the end only the superstitious
neurasthenics carried in their pocket a little figurine
made from salt, resembling the god of irony;
since then there wasn't a greater god.

then the barbarians came, they too greatly prized
the idol of irony.
           they pounded it with their heels and sprinkled
it into their dishes.

no clay-monster of the Levant can intimidate
me now!
not armed with these words:
let us witness the great divorce of man from woman!
let us watch!
pray... let us be brothers and friends and
secretly wishing we were lovers:
in the thinning air... let us talk about the strange
glow above the Thames hanging over Kew Gardens
as if: as i said to him:
as if the sunset still claiming an eye
in the night...
      what woman? what woman could i share
this romantic conversation with?
my interaction with women is so blatant so cold
so forced to claim the male in me and the woman
in her that it's only ******...
oh sure... i was going to the brothel...
but i was coming home already late...
i had two pairs of socks on, drawers, trousers...
a tank-top a shirt gloves and a thick coat...
by the time i would get out of all those layers
and have a quick shower...
half an hour i would have paid for would have become
nothing more than 15 minutes...
not enough time to get a hard-on
of being in the mood...
i already had more than ***...
a conversation... and no woman has yet to actually
provide me with one...
perhaps we are not in the trenches...
but men have always managed without women...
for as long as time knows...

a shift prior... at West Ham... ******* guy with a bald
head and a face as endearing as a plump baby
we great with a handshake that turns into
a thumb against thumb contest and a hug
tells me that i should come and find him at Cavern Cottage
and he'll sort me out with some free food...
hey presto i go and find him
i get a free steak and ale pie...
i know it's a one off...
    we already get discounts for burgers from the burger
van... but it's nice to give a reminder when
being invited...

     we do our rounds in the park...
among the Pakistanis and the Bangladeshi who at first
thought i was British when asked:
oh no... i'm not British... an Anglo-Slav at best...
from that lineage of Anglo-Saxons...
the Saxons who came among post-Rome rule
Britain and mingled or not mingled
with the local Celtic and Welsh and Britton populace...
i'm the second wave that didn't make it
because the British Empire collapsed
and the eastern Europeans were not too dearly minded
in the history of the British Empire...
but they know that i'm from Poland
so when asked: where are you from? there...
and "there"... but i've been living here since i was
7 so there's no "born and bred" argumentation
with me and those in your ethnic stratum
concerning any anti-Pakistani villification
of those in the "upper-castes"... blah blah...
they know... while the three of us walked around
this 40 year old Yugoslav woman
who escaped the Yugoslavian collapse of
circa 1992... starts talking as i switch her around
so she can have a walk with us to warm up her legs
from standing stiff still...
where are you from? oh... here...
i'm not going to tell her what i told the boys...
not after she deflects my attraction to her
by paying more attention to the Pakistani boy
of 20... i'm closer to her age...
but... then she does this sick thing of asking
me to hold her empty cups of tea that
have an unused teabag in it and some dried milk...
oh... right? i'm going to be your waiting boy?

******* testing women... this woman is past her prime...
i know it she thinks she can "test" my patience
by me being her ******* pet-shop-boy?!
fine! fine...
the more and more i talk to women
the more i find them diametrically opposed
to any sort of psychologically asexual universalism of:
ecce ****...
                 women have: and will have to...
sexualize everything from Aristotle to Zeno...
there was once a maybe female version of Aristotle if
only the: give me the drill... i need a bigger hole to see through:
these eyes aren't large enough...
if only there wasn't an oppressive patriarchy...
the oppressive "patriarchy" of autistic geniuses?!
oh... that one... the sort of men cowering
from female sexuality?
  wow! how oppressive!
                    magnificently oppressive!
we all should be so magnificently oppressed by the man
who discovered the wheel by meditating
the O(micron) - what came first?
the wheel or the omega, or was it the sun?
if Prometheus brought down fire... by teaching man
that scratching flint against flint could illuminate
the cave and give man a second womb of poison-fire...
before the forests turned to ash...
before Pompeii's negative of a whiplash of history...

i tried loving women... i loved them for:
the many months i would rather not use
the fingers of both my hands for...
    absolutely un-relate-able creatures...
what *** beside that of female would whisper in
man's heart to leave their minds without
reason to stage the Trojan War
                        or bring architecture to kneel:
like Xerxes: but the madness of Xerxes was rather
beautiful wanting to lash the Aegean into submission
rather than that little Pharaoh ***** who might
have said: best to chisel down a rock face
and glue together sand with egg-whites and spit
into bricks and polish up a craggy mountain:
lest we forget: from a lineage of a people
that once said: let us "reinterpret" the mountains!
pyramids...
                at least the South American tribes invented
the pyramid as an altar... not a tomb...
but we're no smarter than they were dumber:
the myopic-vision strategy of the vantage point
of: what came prior... with hindsight...
but hindsight only works in reverse...
the unmistakeably irreversible past
within the confines of the motto: the terrible
has already happened!
  
                       and some variation of the historically
terrible isn't already happening,
on some microscopic level?
                           not if / not yet?!
                                             hardly...

poetry is air and not the prose of water...
i am stranded between wanting to breathe air
and at the same time more in need to drink water:
no wonder i cannot rest with merely breathing air...
if only i were to breathe air and leave my efforts
with so much nuance as to allow others to breathe
the same air... alas i am like that saying of Heraclitus...
i'll pour you a glass of water
i have prior to drank... leave it for you to drink a day
later: it will not be the same water that i have drank...
i wish i could write like these words might be air...
but it's... aqua post scriptum et plus aqua
post scriptum ad fluenta...

                    verschließen dein augen:
    sehen wieder... immer wieder:
                               bis: es gibt
                             nicht freude:
noch aufschub träumen...
                              kalt silber-rasierer
                                 schneiden auf
mondklären... nacht als auch wirklichkeitstoff.

good to hear from the finns.

at least poetry has the decency to allow me a mirror
into a heart, rather than all this **** reasoning
that decided: like i ******* care
to hear your narrative.
for 20 odd years i enjoyed my narration
that didn't transcribe itself into
a "poem" or (god forbid)
a youtube video;
people in the west have this profanity
in them, they always cite beginning
something aged eight, or nine...
which precursors to them saying: i'm a genius!
i started wanking aged 7,
because i found a prono mag in the catacombs
of a church that was being built...
that's genius? ever ponder the consideration
that you can become sexually aroused
prior to producing *****? and teaching it
to someone? so where do abortion rules
for pro-life come in, into that game?
and believe me, it was the most beautiful and at
the same time ******-up relationship that lasted
for about two seasons of a year...
i went to st. petersburg and met her parents,
although she called her mother her sister,
and she called her grandmother her mother...
i was given a silver spoon to shove up my ***
as a symbol for the consecration of vows...
to be honest? figuring out god was by far
easier to understand than that woman of teasing
teens... i was 21 she was 19... pushing onto *******
infinity... added to the fact that i thankfully haven't
lived anything past that...
    9 going onto 10 years spent in an imaginary
prison of my room and collecting books...
     but what's really sad is that i had most of my
knuckles used up in childhood,
   i remember chasing *bioły around a "skip"
with rafał kicking the **** out of him,
then bioły's older brother kicking me in the ***,
then my neighbours, twins grzesiek & krzysiek
turning bioły's older brother's car (a fiat 126p)
upside down...
      i swear yesterday i heard that the c.i.a. was using
samsung televisions to spy on people
by turning them into audio-related devices...
            it's still a bit foggy for me, to be honest,
i'm in the cinema of memory...
it's beautiful, not a lot of people in the theatre,
just me the memory of being a kid
and a dog trying to **** my ankle...
             it's weird, the highest quality of my memory
comes from being born elsewhere,
there, where i didn't have to use this tongue...
  phoo! foreign *******... look at me now:
a complete mongrel of soul: so much so that i have
to listen to songs in finnish...
              what's it like reading yesterday's newspaper?
daffodils!                                   daffodils!
it's scented candles in a spa!
                                  i forget you don't keep ****
but instead flush it down the toilet...
                       i got to page 8 and read about autism
and something about the lack of the flush button
for the brain (fat) processing protein...
   i have this skin condition whereby i process white-blood
cells (protein) so efficiently that i have to store
it the pores of my skin... which probably allows me
to drink a litre of 40% alcohol a day and worry
whether the day is gone and the night arrived...  
                                                                ­      oh the wonder!
i once heard that solipsism is a mental illness
by some ****... to be frank, isn't it a coping mechanism
when reading the newspaper?
              how much of the dasein do you actually
want to keep to live your life?
         everything and nothing is happening
north west east south and centre...
               prior to page 8 of yesterday's newspaper
i have an american president looking flash
like he just walked out of a prada "bookstore",
          (people do read you, rather than judge you,
and it does come from donning tracksuit bottoms
and walking into a supermarket, and then selling
your poetry book to a cashier)...
  so yes, existentialism and the "technique" is all
but the summary given by the older technique of metaphor,
since homer came before socrates.
              i do remember my first kiss,
i was very young and her surname was kot
and she was the elder sister and she had twin sisters
and her father drank a lot and operated a truck...
why are my most sacred memories reserved to
8 years spent in poland?
                   i have to abide that 8 is a sacred number
of memory content, after that it just disappears
into grey, mundane;
and how hard did the french think up ∞ working
from 8... so O and 0... the concepts of
       rhombus or a game of squash, which is
so much better than tennis;
       the best part of this is that someone might
misunderstand me as if i was a toff...
    toff? toffee? english middle class? no? never heard
of it? i'm sure.
             english kings go to st. andrews,
                            hostile immigrants go to edinburgh.
my original intention though, for this prompt...
what was it?
            it's not even a case of amnesia,
it must have been that autism article and how
the brain (fat, it's wholly fat) degenerates by a protein
invasion... and the journalistic populism of science
in england: this consciousness coordination
of flexing muscle equivalent to the brain being protein
based... or "brain power"...
                    that ***** is equivalent to a buttock...
it's not going anywhere...
       they did shoot andrei chikatilo in the back
of the head, and kept him in a cell for about two
weeks before his body gave up...
back of the head, yep, shot him dead,
like that theory of cockroaches, they can survive
for 2 weeks without their heads before they die
from starvation; and this is ukraine we're talking about;
i do feel sorry for kurt cobain and hemmingway...
kafka's concept made more sense,
     attacking the heart, rather than the head...
but obviously not translated into a rhetorical debate;
could this be untrue?
                    how are we celebrating history
and cunningly hiding death?
              i was once interviewed by a psychiatrist,
she gave up on me while i called her field of medicine
a facade, and i mentioned reading kierkegaard,
so she gave up on me... but in this one particular
room i was talking to this woman...
- and some people fear death.
- i like you.
- that's strange, we only just met.
                       i prefer this encoding of dialouge,
it's rampant in poland, and also in ireland...
     you think adding milk to tea is an english thing?
it's called a bavarka, and it was typical
of giving it to pregnant women in siberia...
  adding milk to tea isn't an original practice,
it originated in siberia... serving tea with milk...
it's a bavarka.

En del av något
Som gör det hel
En sak utan stort värde
Om det står ensam
En cell utanför en organism
En krydda före en måltid
En tegelsten utanför en vägg
Ett faktum utan vetenskap
Element finns överallt
De formar allt vi känner till
Från atomer till universumet
Från likgiltighet till kärleken
De är orsaken bakom livet
Resultatet av döden
Det finns så mycket att prata om
Jag har inte tillräckligt med papper
De andra elementen kommer stanna kvar
I mitt huvud tills de flyr
Gradvis igenom mina fingrar
Om få sekonder eller några minuter
Få timmar eller några dagar
De kommande orden kommer försvinna
Nedanför en ogenomskinlig filt
Tills jag kommer tillbaka
Och slår åter tangenterna|

.                             mono     automaton
                          q  u  a  s  i  o  m  n  i;
in­to root of the crux
                                                i will
                       invoke,
a black cardinal,
  that challenges
  all self-righteous popes,
and all self-imposing
popes;
   are my words not bread?
are my words not wine?
then who claims authority
over the justification
   of the authenticity of
            recruiting people
toward the position of "power"?
   who's if not the dead borthers
feed your near cannibalistic mouths?
        who feeds the living,
when who feeds the living,
are dead?!
          necrophilia; rampant!!!
cry...                 asylum! asylum!
who's over-reacting?
   some irish will tell ye'...
    i hate the irish...
   i have a fetish for hating them;
esp. those
settled in england;
  those ******* i hate the most;
why?
    i was wearing a german army
shirt in an irish pub, and
what did the bartender say?
i can't serve you.
   you engaged in the second
world war, paddy?!
******* potato harvester
     ginger-dangle-bell of
a hope... that never comes...
just the drowning ginger ***
who's abode was and will
           be the belfast dim-wit
known as
                              the titanic;
**** me, i'm not even born &
bred english and i already find
the irish worthy of considering
genocidal tendencies...
scots? **** me, shoot me
to a pub for a whisk,
and some 'aggis neeps 'n' tatties...
the welsh?
      what, the ultra-german spelling
machine that's not even
comparable to germans?
   i'll just talk to charlie prince, y'all...
rrrr... (i just had to make it obvious)...
the ear-ish?
       i ******* hate the *****...
and i'm not even english to begin with...
some people you immediately get
to love...
   aussies, the finns...
                 and some people you
immediately get to hate...
                       the irish, the germans;
it's a shame though,
   i learned this pathos
   from acquiring the english language...
i.e. "assimilating" into
  the culture, p.s. the i.r.a. attacks,
so yeah, peedee pi dee p'oh,
   and a paedo to ring
             the bell for friday's mass...
   f
                            uck
             me,
            coming off the rocking chair,
next you'll find me so much so
assimilated that i'll be calling
it the irish and the northern monkeys...
vs. the loondish
               and the southern fairies /
                                                   pansies;
i suppose if you're ever
going to assimilate, hold to the local
customs (when in rome,
         do as the romans do),
**** me, it's great,
at least i can finally realise that
   there's no greater "racism" than in
the intra- realm, as oppossed to
the inter- realm...
    once again... it's not racism,
   it's "racism"... or a way to get along;
s.j.w.b.g.l.t.q.t.+ sycophant?
    drunk like a skunk... you walked
into my bedroom, you'd get an aura
of a brewery...
                  i can't believe i had
to learn english, and have to succumb
to outer-london prooper english
stereotypes, that i was trying to avoid;
but at least the irish made it plainly
obvious for me to establish,
   giving my transcendental approach
to diacritical marks, which made me sound
posh english, and them,
  my synthetically inherited enemy;
which is nice, breaking away from
hating the russians and the germans;
if i go to a pub?
   i only drink guinness...
  why? it doesn't taste the same in a can
or in an export bottle...
    you need to drink guinness in a pint glass.

Man får säga ibland
Att det finns skönhet som inte går att beskriva
När till och med en himmelsk strand
Skulle se gräslig ut om man skulle jämföra
Så länge jag bor här
Kommer det inte finnas något att klaga på
Vi är som ett par
Med två partiklar som möttes och blev oskiljaktiga
Jag har varit med dig i tre år nu
Och kärleken brinner fortfarande
Det är uppenbarligen jag och du
Och det är inget erbjudande
Det är hellre ett vackert oundvikligt löfte
Som skrevs med outplånligt bläck på ett häfte  
Du ser ut som en mångfacetterad hydra
Som står ovanför en blå matta
Det känns så skönt att korsa dina broar
Och att gå vilse i kurvorna du har
Jag måste också prata om din gröna klänning
Som man inte kan undvika att smeka
Den absorberar solsken, släpper syre, får oss att leva
Och gör mig glad när jag kommer kring
Du är ljusare än solen under sommaren
Men mörkare än ett svart hål när vinter spränger dörren
Som regnet som får regnbågen att dyka upp
Uppskattar jag mörkret för då ser man norrsken
Samtidigt, brukar snö bygga upp
En vit rock som försvinner sen
Du var inte mitt första val från början
Men nu står du högst upp på listan
Jag behöver erkänna att jag är kär i dig
Trots att du inte ens är en riktig tjej.

tunga täcken och dina andetag
bläcket i din hud och dina fina ord
jag glömmer nästan att sängen är dekorerad med mitt blod
fläckar som du låter finnas kvar

du känns som mitt paradis
för ibland vill du hålla om mig
men oftast vill du ha mer
dina händer är för ivriga och blåmärken är bevis
du ser ledsen ut men du fortsätter ändå
jag tror att det är okej för du vill ju ha mig

jag vill gråta
du vill romantisera
du säger ju att jag är fin när jag gråter
även när det är du som orsakat tårarna
gillar du det?
är du stolt?
för mina ögon brinner när dina bara är blå

jag är en saga och du är min prins
det finns ingen krona på ditt huvud
så du låter makten koras i dina händer istället
men det är
                      okej
vi är okej

du greppar hårt och blåser på såren
lämnar mig för ett bloss från cigaretten
jag känner lukten av rök på dina kläder
men jag vet att jag inte ska fråga
aldrig ifrågasätta
för då hade jag kanske sett
att dina ord var mjuka men din säng var hård
att dina löften vara stora men dina lögner var större
jag faller alltid för dig ändå

jag håller dig i handen och allt jag säger är fel
mina kläder är värdelösa
mina ord är ett evigt eko
du varnar och du säger
                                           f ö r l å t
men du vet aldrig vad du ber om ursäkt för

alkohol i vårt blod och mina tårar på din kudde
din själ som låtsas vara trasig
min själ som skriker ditt namn
aldrig någonsin hittar de till varandra igen
för illusionen är förstörd och till **** får jag syn
du är inget mästerverk och jag tycker synd om de andra
de som ser när dina ögon blir mörka
de som ser dina läppar runt en flaska

mörka väggar och du är borta
någon dag kommer du få höra
om natten jag spenderade hos din vän
eller telefonsamtalen från personen du träffade senast för en kvart sen
viskningar på stan och folk som ser igenom dig
du är en kliché
och inget känns okej längre

Du var som gruset
På en trottoar i december
Därför
Ville jag ha dig
För jag trodde det var du
Som hjälpte mig stå när gatan var hal
Men jag glömde tacka mina egna ben
Som hjälpte mig upp
Varje gång du misslyckades skydda mig
Från vinterns alla brutala fall
Men nu är våren här
Och jag ser dig inte
Men jag är inte ledsen
För jag vet
Att bland alla betydelselösa gruskorn
Finns någon som kommer pryda min trädgård
Och inte bara vara gruset på en trottoar

Hon brukar ha på sig en mössa
Som gömmer en del av långa håret
En gyllene kaskad som inte blöter
Men är ***, lugnande, och skiner
Mössan skämmer aldrig bort ansiktet
Huset till hennes fina ögon, gul, grå, och blå
En blandning som måste bedömas som perfekt
Så tydlig som en plus en är lika med två

Det känns alltid bra att resa söderut
Att flygga utifrån språngbrädan
Och att ta **** tack vare vinden
Som blåser periodiskt när hon andas ut

Jag landar då på hennes mun
Som hyser den hemliga bron
Som väntar på att jag närmar mig för att hälsa på,
Inte varje gång, men det blir alltid en härlig överraskning då

Jag brukar stanna kvar där en stund
Vaggad av vågorna bildas av hennes läppars kurvor
Och inser att man kan väl resa utan att flytta på sig
Jag står här orörlig och kysser henne
Det räcker för att skapa nya banor
Som leder till ett ställe som kallas extas
Ett ställe som kan enbart finnas
När vi är tillsammans,
När det finns inget avstånd mellan oss
När vi är i mitten av en sensuell dans
Det är klart att jag vill ta ingen paus
Men hellre fortsätta tills natten gradvis raderas av solen
Tills det är dags att börja om resan igen.

Outlanders (& lowlanders) from the European continental shelf shall expand weftwise till theirs is the girth of elephants. We shall call upon one & another to stultify mistrust & dysplasia & dyspepsia & dysentery. Our hips establish carriage—smooth glides & the wherewithal to sashay. Until Americans buckle- & batten-down, no one in Mexicali can be employed. Now's el momento when goodness, righteousness & piety count. Celebrate claustrophobic bends, needles in the pinpricks & medications of fabled remission. Choose not to spin when there's nowhere to turn. One follows another as by natural edict. The guppies that were flushed down our loos in 1974 live in our hearts within 1,000 oils of these revolving tenderloins & caudal *****. People appear @ the funeral home who have nobody dead to visit with. People vaporize in an instant when there's no need for hasty departure. Living our lives to the cruelest is of, & corresponds to, the fragile will of our prompters. I shall speed into slots with a baked face. I shall review Jim Jones' C.I.A. funding blueprints. “Fear not the reaper!” I should replace my olden connections with spiffy prayer-beads. Moving our bowels & furniture honors a keen fashion-sense.

Det var en sak jag ville säga
En sak som plötsligt blev flera
Det är så det brukar gå
I mitt huvud, råkar allt förändras

Jag vill att du närmar dig
Inte för att det är en hemlighet
Men för tiden det ger mig
För att samla på mig tillräckligt med mod

Jag vet inte hur du kommer reagera
Jag hoppas att du inte tar det illa
Fast, jag vet det inte kan hända
Borde jag hellre ha använt tro, tycka, eller tänka?

Det finns inget som är säkert
När du är i området
Det här matar problemet som blåser upp lite mer varje dag
Eftersom du är här, fast i mina tankar, oavsett vägen jag tar

Det känns nu som jag har sagt för mycket
Jag är förvirrad, helt enkelt
Kanske, blir det bättre om jag håller tyst i alla fall
Jag blir rädd, jag blir kall

Jag behöver värma mig
Kom fortare, hjälp mig!
Det är bara en sak som räknas
Bara en sak, jag lovar

Det var en sak jag ville säga
En sak du ska veta
En sak bara
Det är faktiskt en fråga
En fråga till dig
Som ungarna skulle säga

Får jag en chans på dig?

after a long shift at Fulham (Craven Cottage): well... obviously
it was going to be a longer shift than usual...
we were readying ourselves for a pitch-invasion...
since... if Fulham won... they would become secured
promotion to the Premier League...
i asked to be moved inside: third time...
   all the prior shifts in Bishop's Park were: one big
joke / yawn... nothing to do...
                                    absolutely nothing... nada -
            ei mitään
at least inside the stadium i could do something useful...
first on the turnstiles... then on the seg-line...
then... moved to the front... facing the crowd...
obviously i was picked to move around a bit because
i can sometimes look intimidating if i want...
not that i really want to... but Fulham has a different
atmosphere to West Ham...
mind you... whatever the stereotypes... western Londoners
are slobs... they have no fashion sense...
honest to god... eastern Londoners have so much
more dress sense! esp. the men...
   i won't mention the women either side of the fence...
but... east London men: well... the ones that come
to football matches are... proper ******* lads...
    prim...
                       back to the turnstiles: paired up with
this Muslim kid... for a while he thought i was Muslim
too... like those Muslim propagandists on Edgware Road
trying to make me into a proselyte thought
i was German... backwards and forwards...
so what time do you break fast...
   you still break the fast in the classical way with water
and dates? he looked bemused since
in the turnstiles opposite us... the "ummah" breaks
fast with an entire ******* meal... my guess... Somalis...
he even asked me for a favour:
can i pray in this turnstile shack... you know where
east is?
           i don't mind but... we're opening in like 5 minutes:
and i'm pretty sure your prayer is not as quick
and pointless as our father... which only good children
get up to before going to bed... in Catholic circles...
at least: until they become... well apostates...
so he asked: you're fasting to? it was the beard...
the full beard and moustache... ergo i must be a Muslim...
and not an urban hipster... well: no long hair done up
in a Shiva "jatadhara" - but not dreaded / matted...
oh no... i fast for a non-religious reason...
   i like fasting: it makes you more concentrated...
you learn that by fasting you can train yourself to hunger
something that transcends a hunger for food...
me... when i fast... i hunger for the eyes of women
to look at me... literally: hungry like a wolf...
          i hunger for human interaction: but Fulham is
not a friendly crowd... high-brow... depends...
            - and i truly don't know how Charles Bukowski
wrote about the drudgery of work...
           i must have spent too much time in my ivory tower
in my twenties... raving mad...
to now find myself... happily working... after all:
only a day prior i was doing some hardening...
right now... i count... 9 trees that i planted in my garden...
so far: the first... a plum tree... towers over me...
and each year she doesn't disappoint with her yield...
the others are just infants, but hopefully...
two years down the line... some apricots...
cherries.... morello cherries... apples... pears...
   i might not have walked in Eden... but... eh... so so...
plus the rosemary the thyme and the wild garlic that...
in the summer months... come night time after having
watered it... it smells like... marijuana...
    plus that massive eucalyptus tree at the end of it:
shame... no pandas...
               but i understand like... i don't want to say it...
but... it's sort of like.... ahem: ARBEIT MACHT FREI...
long shift today... pitch-invasion...
   some roughing up at first... then enough people took
up audacity and it was like: just let them past...
yesterday dismantling a vegetable patch...
   shifting about a tonne of soil... shovel: shove shove...
into bags and dumped into another part of the garden...
then... digging three holes for three gorgeous trees...
there... i did my green bit...
    - but not since the health of the youtube algorithm
have i been so frustrated at my once favourite
pastime of foraging for new music like a John Peel...
i once had the best-set up for finding new music i might like...
once you could appreciate youtube...
when... ahem... it was a "manosphere": or rather...
a site primarily used by men...
               before all the cat videos... before all the make-up
tutorials... it was a glorious time to find music!
now? now we're talking about looking at ***** colony
of patches of... i just don't have the words...
but... sometimes... i still get lucky...
   i got lucky today...
        there's nothing like coming back all the way from
Putney Bridge to Romford... hands shaking...
strong pain in the chest: no... it's not a heart attack...
hands shaking... if i were diabetic?
                   i haven't eaten anything all day...
   i managed to hold about 20cl of **** through all the trip...
oh god... the chicken shop is still open...
hot box... 6 spicy chicken wings... chips... five (s)quid...
eat half while waiting for the bus... hands still shaking...
eat the other half on the bus... get off the bus...
go into an alley... ****... go to a patch of grass
and wipe my hands to finish off what the tissue couldn't
accomplish... take out a cigarette and... ah...
surgeon's hands...                 blood sugar levels alright
one more... and in my memory... that one girl
in yoga pants that kept playing with her hair...
pulling her pants up... exposing her massive:
and i mean... hmm... peaches can't be as plum...
giving me the stare... she kept me going until
the shift finished...
             so i got home... and when i come home
tired: i'm *****... so... took the "holy trinity" to the throne
of thrones... took a ****: you're going to automatically
**** while your **** relaxes... and then...
the usual story... at least i'm not making an Only-Fans
account and filming myself for others...
it's there one minute... and then once the deed is
done: creative juices can start flowing...
sit down with a whiskey... or two... or three...
and try to figure out what to do with the sick algorithm...
foraging for more music...
and there is a massive underground movement of folk...
i've known about Hedningarna for some time...
best songs? tappmarschen... vargtimmen... raven...
Suomi... which... is a strange sort of what's classically
associated with Scandinavia... since the Finns are...
well... particular... Inuit... mythological in a sense
of being almost Eskimo...
        was i going to get lucky tonight?
sure as **** i was... the current algorithm is a bit like
a slot machine... you have to be patient with it...
subscribe to at least two good channels...
i can recommend: HARAKIRI DIAT
   and IN DEPTH MUSIC... those two channels have changed
the way i had to improve the use of the site
for my benefit...
we're still staying in Finland...
           but we're moving away from folk music:
going back in time to the 1980s...
with what was happening post-punk in England...
two music genres i abhor... punk... and rap...
i can't stomach them... stiff little fingers.... fair enough...
i'd sooner find myself on the "wrong end" of a stick
for liking Phil Collins like... that Bateman guy...
or U2... but... no... i can't stomach punk or rap...
it's not right for my digestion...
      but? post-punk? gothic rock? deathrock?
   sign me up... it's almost like the extension of The Cure
and Depeche Mode and Joy Division i've always been hungering
for...
   found it today...
the following rubric is the artist and a song(s)
with a translation of the song titles...

musta paraati - romanssi (romance), myrsky nousee (storm rises)
belaboris - kuolleet peilit (dead mirrors)
this one is going to be funny...
silmät - haudattu (burried)...
          but if you take the word apart?
   hau - woof... dattu - date... we start barking
on the 20th of April?!
syyskuu - susi (wolf)
        kuudes tunti - kuuntele ääniä (listen to the sounds)
kuolleet kukat - kasoittain tuhkaa (loads of ash)
hiljaa - kuume (fever)
               päät - rikoksen rytmi (crime rhythm)
liikkuvat lapset - sinut haluan (thee i want)...
                  well... i'm not a Finn...
                                 sinut halua (without the n)...
but... the basic jyst is already there: i want you...
whether that's sinut halua or sinut haluan...

i was lucky today... looking for new music...
i'm not so lucky... too many cat videos...
too many make-up tutorial videos fudging the original
thesaurus algorithm where:
music was just more accessible... but no surprises...
look at what happened to the high-street...
once upon a time men could go to a vinyl shop...
forage... find something interesting...
now? what's left?! shoe shops... clothes shops...
restaurants...
they burnt the secular church of man:
to the ground...
                i'm lucky... in Romford we still have
the last "face" of what's the HMV franchise...
it's not HMV though... there's also this one crazy
record shop in Upminster...
but... that's about it...
        you burned my ******* church to the ground...
replacing it with... **** i don't need...
that's just not cool...
            i mean come on: men are visual creatures?!
ah ha ha... yeah... when it comes to looking at women...
if there were no women involved...
to hell with painters... they're freaks...
paint over something i can blink at?! and give it up to my
memory bank?
visual creatures... men...
hmm... sure... Beethoven was such a ******* visual
creature that his love for music...
well... if it didn't drive him mad...
the gods were good to him: they just drove him deaf!
men are only visual creatures when
women are concerned... we're as ******* abstract
as you can get...
         you burned my church to the ground!
why couldn't a sacred space of men coming together
and sharing tastes and distastes still exist?
no one is going to have a conversation over buying
a ******* pair of shoes... well... who would?
but over a record album... talk talk... talk talk:
tears for fears... of **** this ****... i'm out... bailing...
even my mother mentioned this quack of a fact
joke: women just binge-watch t.v....
         i don't know how i managed to keep up
with the series Billions... probably for Chuck Rhodes...
women just ******* talk t.v. t.v. t.v.:
ask them about music? ask them... except for the popular
current crap? i count a woman interesting
if she has even the remote interest in music...
but... most women don't...
for them... listening to music: looking at inanimate
objects and imagining them vibrating is: alien...
what you could do... is... this little experiment...
tell a man to listen to some music... while looking at a rock...
hell.. a ******* mountain... but a rock is just grand...
but play him some music...
now... do the opposite... tell a woman to watch some
animate object... but... mute her hearing ability...
so... put the volume down low on something on t.v.:
and let the woman watch...
in turn... put some earphones on a man
and tell him: you're Sisyphus... watch the rock...
because: i never truly grapled with the myth...
even if a Camus tried to explain it to me...
mein gott... on my way back home...
******* spaghetti-eaters... H'americans...
apart from the accent... their bravado was just
overflowing... loud: girls more boisterous than
the boys... flesh everywhere... i could spot at least
two ******* about to show more than
the darkened flesh around the *******... the *******...
loud: drinking on public transport:
even though it's illegal: acting as if they own
the ******* place... women this **** have never
come across as... anything but appealing...
let's be honest: if i want to visit a *******:
i'll visit one... put my money on the table:
blah blah Dandy Warhol's an hour later...
but all this libido insomnia that men go through:
this overt-teasing... i'm like a horse with
eye-blinders... trot: the: ****: along...
        plus the accent is... bothersome...
       i pray that i never have to visit America...
i pray that i might, somehow get to see the glimpses
of the Kamchatka Peninsula...
            two girls quit work when i said that i dated
a Russian girl (from Novosybirsk) and that:
in the "current climate": it would be a bad idea to
date a Russian girl... that's before the Ukraine fiasco...
oh well... rumours... tremors... but still all handshakes
at the company's Reichstag...
bearded: heavy looking men... it's such a pretty
joke that all of us look tough but...
if we had to come across someone with a black belt
in judo: we'd be... ha ha... slippery pancakes!
but... but... they burned my church down...
long gone are the days best associated
with Nick Hornby's High Fidelity...
    that novel: made me...
           it's one of the few books where the film adapatation
made me want to read the book...
Stendhal's the Scarlet and the Black
was another... the Three Muskateers...

well... isn't it such a lovely comment anyone
could leave?

but the best itches, are the ones you can't scratch, no? what's that thought you haven't shared with me? - and, may i ask, are you willing to share it now? just as i''m waiting: are you bloodied and willing to... allow the leeches to drain the restraints from you? speak your mind... i feel no need to inhibit my thinking: that's how i respect the concept of free speech, if it follows the Cartesian model... res cogitans becomes res extensa: i sometimes like to revel in revealing what i think... therefore translating it as "speech": even... when entrusted with lettering... it's not speech... is it? freedom of speech is an extension of thought: no? painters can't talk for a worth of chalk or... rather: charcoal on canvas: i.e.: ****... epileptic blinking machines... eh... it's just a little distinction between how Y and I diverge... yet at the same time merge... dye... difference... i'm not even sure how to overcome this fiddly bit of the Anglo-Zunge... but there's no lisp involved...  but you're getting my grift... motive... whatever you want to call it... yeah... phi and theta... which... in English is basically: F = PH = TH... i already found this keyhole using the iota and omicron: key in: twist... hey presto... i.e. I + O = Φ / Θ = Ω i.e. the door opens... this was not borrowed from the Exploits & Opinions of Dr. Faustroll: Pataphysician by Alfred Jarry... please... don't restrain yourself... you think i could?

i only copied it for the equations... well... just this one:
I + O = Φ / Θ = Ω.

i can already tell you that
                diacritical distinctions
   does exist in the english
language...
(olde english) albiet /
     (modern english)
   although
                    it's well hidden,
for starters
    there is a good example
of an acute u (ú) popping it's
"ugly" head from the edenic
                    camoflouge:
  e.g.? pút...
                 otherwise known
as the double omicron
         in pool -
              varied within púll...
oh **** me, invoking the germanic
ß (grapheme) was always going
to attract attention...
    given anglo-saxons are cousins
with bavarians, swabians
       or pomeranians -
     if ever a prussian print would
exist,
     we'd find that
     they're the fourth
leg of a dog that queer
         in linguistic
terms... the other three oddities?
  finns, estonians
     and the ***(garian)s...
i'm still at odds of discovering
all the particular diacritical
examples (distinctions) in english,
since no example of such
  an instance being apparent,
unravels itself into a universally
     consistent expression...
       try applying diacritical marks
to each and every english word...
       even j. joyce didn't mention
this "adventure" in his
             undeservedly omitted work
  finnegans wake...
                  but it is an adventure
nonetheless...
                  for there are instances in
english, when applying diacritical
marks is, frankly? all-too blatant:
your eyes start twitching,
your fingers start itching,
             your tongue has a crap
dangling off it, implying: walk side-ways
for once, off the beaten track of
   pop trend.

When three beloved family members die suddenly in less than a year, and the waves of grief keep crashing on emotionally barren hearts, while the ravenous Covid reigns supreme across an upended planet, the wounds are deep and my scab over but actual healing it never happens.

Am I the only one who longs to be with kin, to gather and share sadness?  Did I miss a memo to forgo solace, to avoid interest in how everyone is holed up?  Maybe I’m captive in a dark fortress of self-disdain built by my ancestors’, a psychic prison, because once again, the familiar nonentity arises within, sporting a rusty shackle, a bygone, worthless old ma locked inside obscurity, her punishment deserved, a lifetime of solitary confinement, out of sight, out of mind, and dare I say, out of heart.

Or is my suffering a byproduct of centuries of unchecked
ancestral self-recrimination, manifested as genetic despair,
a second nature born again into each generation, a blame/shame gene, a gross cellular overload of fear-filled unforgiveness stamped onto the DNA (don’t never answer) when the olive branch is passed, as another hoped for connection, a longing for forgiveness is ****** to hell.

Certainly, clues are found in the Lahti-Riley clan of silent Finns and Irish drunks, who daily suffered remorse, regret, and never-ending regurgitation something essential is lacking like positive self-regard but ****, those Riley’s sure could put in a day’s work, men and women alike, slogged, hell, they worked their ***** off dirt poor farmers, woodsmen, maids, fixers of things broken, never lost a day, paid their way.  

It’s clear my sorely needed amends of wrongdoing never promised a happily ever after, no, my amends were and still are a fragile beginning, a hold out for hope, an appeal to begin anew, an attempt to clean up my side of the street, to own my wrongdoing while knowing I did what I knew how to do, however hear my painful confession, to be cast out, a nonentity, estranged, alone and forsaken, it seems like overkill.

My angels know their demons
My demons know their twins
Which ones will is stronger?
Which ones will will wins?
Took a boat from Stockholm
Sang for Swedes and Finns
The Dark Knight always rises
After Batman he Begins

                     Chicago!

Theres no NATO For Sweden

or Finns

because Vlad put the boot in

and wins

if he turns off the gas

’twill be one up the ***

so bye Biden to Boris

and kins

I.

i struggle to find some alternative to her snoring and her moaning and her talking about magic numbers associated with keeping or reaching a perfect space in which to live, but i have to find alternatives...

Kurt Vonnegut Jr.

       a reading by Jordan (a) Peter's son:

sum: in Icelandic:
everyone's everybody or someone's ibin
a son of...

hereson boujeron...
did i: mishear that?

maybe my listening "skills"
are not up to scratch: whether vinyl
or liquirice
liquid not D but still
it's not Lick-a-Rish: reesh: reach!

envy of the stars...

liquirice... spelling mistake: underlined
in red...
liquorice... LIK-O-REESH...
reed?

            i much prefer fennel: seeds...
but i also know
that...
well: no surprises...

Roman cumin is standard cumin: "standard"...
but in the same way
Caraway Seeds are also categorized
as cumin (elsewhere):

pizza for dinner
and i "suffer" a suffering of this
doughy platitude that
doesn't: envelop the jaw to bite
for worth of bone, sinew, marrow slurp,
this dough like this sickness
borrowed from
the metaphor
whereby words become transfixations
to call wine blood
to call bread body
this is not what the Slavic atheists
envisioned as simply
necrophilia
but this is poetic cannibalism
what sick mind gives this envy
and mindless watered down soliloquy
not even St Boniface or Augustus

i write this as if waking up
to the simultaneous revelation of
both Auschwitz and Golgotha
equal in parody
this tender kept heave! heave!
i find not Euro-centrism in Christianity
therefore?
i can: clearly! disregard it as
something to curl and to tend to "shy intellects"
fervent ground: fertile ground
where Christianity should be
not a crutch on the spirit of the European
but a post-European dumping
ground
like... Africa... parts of China...
somewhere south in the tropics of Vietnam...
Africa (again)
south America:
and... north America...

i can't stand this cult of the "misplaced"...
"missing": cosmopolitan Messiah
this: no wandering in the desert for
40 years by god the Arabs and the Egyptians
are having a field day of
explaining who's who in the plagiarism of:
nobody to borrow or steal from...

so i was skim reading today's newspaper
and finally realized:
CLASS...
a hierarchy a society
not that i beg to differ
but so much of authoritative print
is based upon the middle-class
and their loss of cooing when pigeons
make authority of the sound...

so much CLASS: opinions i really have
no concern for...
in my little corner
i can sort of breathe an opinion off myself:

"decolonizing" the teaching of philosophy
disregarding Plato et al
as somehow "white":
like the Mediterranean curls and olive glistening
was: up to what point
will we conjure up "whiteness"
to say: oh hell yes! the Finns were the white
oppressors all along!

coming to terms with Anglo-Saxon
****** trivialities of
power-end submission-begin dynamics
like for me:

it wasn't enough to bed a 55 year old woman
to finally realize: in my 38th year
that somehow:
getting my rocks off at the prospect of
a 20 year old "body" who
punctuated *** with: pay-me-more
for: oral *** for the fingers slipping
into **** and guitar was
a saxophone's polyphony with trumpets
and trombones

and how those black men allowed
us to escape the rigidity of genius music
in score
in orchestra
with all that silence before the crescendos
so freely
this is some Jazz Musicians' Appreciation
Society?!

the Euros have started and i watched
Germany trash Scotland 5 - 1
but it wasn't just about watching
the football
that was in the background
like music like radio 4: BBC 4
i'm going through a breakup
and i'm cheating
with the workaholic me
the one that scribbles a tonne of words
with a search for some signets
in Katakana and Cuneiform
and Jesus
Jesus saying as much as he did
just doesn't cut it for me
i need a fire of intellect
and by simply nodding along
to those sayings
cages in on Kauai:
in London:
but not in Princeville.....................................

II.

am i such a bad man?
today i felt neuter good: atheistic less
and solipsistic more

i shoveled pebbles from one side
of the garden to the other
to make room for measurements
of garden furniture:
WIKLINOWE... the **** does that mean:
i so didn't want to hurt her
i made an SS-man incision
with a scalpel
and shared two videos
then the cutting words: THE END...
her religiosity got in her way
her kindness and femininity
a complex got in the way
her *** got in the say
and opened a many other ways
to see

am i a bad man?
i never cheated with her in the 4 years
long distance relationship
impossible to live
like that on DOPAMINE hits
the chemist in my ignored it for far
too long...
those were dopamine hits
having met on the Jesus Trek
i wondered: am i not riding my bicycle
that many times?

me mother and father were
actually woken up by a smell...
my female cat left us...
woken up by a smell:
not a sound...
a smell...
the **** blew the roof off and all
the rats turned into lizards...
i'll admit: some turned into cockroaches...
but then that was a far reaching
Apocalyptic B-movie B-Plan
of the vermin
i imagine a flag of central Europe:
i see four colors...

black
red
yellow
white

      yes: that's the flags of Germany, Poland
and the Vatican..

i feel like such a bad man
but today i felt normal:
i broke up with a girl and i spared myself
what i already knew:
she had a meeting with her friend
and her friend's friend some artist
from California
and i already knew:
but she prolonged
then she heard i was inheriting property
in Poland
and so she stuck around
for a bit longer
and the torture continued

and there was more Jesus than Christ
then someone broke in and starting
shouting: Immanuel!
Immanuel!
                
                    Isaiah: make me return among
this plagiarism: who the **** brings
a book into a forest?!
like who blings with: brings forth
a glass pane to the desert?!
i ask! i ask!

this is writing with interlude this is no
case for the Editorial High Priest
for this writing to reach the masses:
perhaps a few
out of what, i ask?

not out of difficulty?
i don't ask out of vanity
or snobbishness:

in the night i heard the words:

CO ROBISZ:

not: CO TY ROBISZ?

nor TY ROBISZ...

translation?

what (you) do       (beyond lost in translation:
a bilingual loss of translation,
translating into English from Polish
where there is less "shrapnel":
less conjunction not so frequent stress on
pronouns...

CO ROBISZ...

   what you do:

             because there was not question
asked by my father as i jumped
an inch quicker to send that cat ****
for examination in the sewers and picnics...

CO TY ROBISZ: yes:
the pronoun interrogative structure of sentence
even without a ? stressor at the end
would be just that: half asleep father with
burning nostrils like i...

TY ROBISZ: i sort of wish he said that
but by saying that
he would be implicit in deeming me a god:
but i am not: you (are) doing...

robienie would be the exactness of
doing...
since it is indefinitely placed in grammar:

ROBISZ is a DO- without an -ING
just like:
BJE could  be the antithesis word
from BE- within the confines of BEING
via -ING
but unlike the -ING of DO- and BE-
one can say that: stressed using the articles of
"atheism":

DO or NOT do...
either way: you're going to: BE!
to do and to be are: indefinite articles..
doing and being are: definite articles!

to do not to be
is doing is being
is not neither
not being and
not doing
but rather
either doing
and not-doing
or
being and
           not-being...

III.

have i left a daughter?
i would not have so many transcendental
euphoric experiences
of simply coming back from work
and acknowledging:
t.v. is acid
need the alkaline gangrene of
whiskey and marijuana
and day-dream come 11pm...

have i left a daughter?
i left a lover
and no amount of ****
will suffice but hell i know it now
and it's like horror movies
i now watch without being scared
so i watch *******
without being aroused
or trying to find paths to the stars...
learned it with intimacy
par excellence:

but i can't forgive her
the book: initiated like a Kantian
categorical imperative
like that wording somehow deafens
the blow
the turn the other cheek
i will never do
but am under sort of forced will:
not free will:
not enslaved will:
i am forced to: live this will...
from free will
to enslaved will
to forced will...

i turned the other cheek to Samir
not Kibsi
not Qarri
not... Samir-Saffar-Ali...

               i have been forced to muse:
to mule the alkaline and acids
the salts and the sugars
i am one carrot shy of a donkeys'
ride on a roller coaster...

                      21 years and i'm not counting:
perhaps that intelligence
deviation:
i explain it as:
been on the construction site for 40
years and didn't use ear guards of moth cloth
or worked in the events industry
as a security guard
and gone deaf from teenage screams
or listening to my headphones
with music from teenage me
almost shortening the switches:
man needs torture! torture!
make his ego come up with excerpts
coming and going
not a sleeper narrative:
i think i am i **** i eat i welcome
i pet i zoo i transgender i stink of glue...
i ergo i plus i minus i divide
i shave i live i outlive i ferment i create god

IV.

but this sharp sound in my head
from the word
whispered into my head via ear:
PIENIADZE: money...

oh but the devil can exist outside
the human world
allowed to be a shaman of shadow
and torrential rains! discipline!

watching too much ****
can make you forgot your original
wits and measures
of watching with disgust two
serpents:
two snails... mating: asexually
it would seem...
even now... the woodland pigeons
seem to be...           GANDU!

GANDU! gay: in Urdu...
sorry... this last work advert i saw stressed
that there are preferential ethnic characteristics
concerning a job role:

best be BLACK
ASIAN
NOT CHINESE
NOT RUSSIAN
BLACK AND ARAB
AND INDIAN AND URDU
BEST BE GAY TOO
TRANSGENDER NO
JUST LGBTQ+ queue too!

can't be white:
even German white is too white
so like German English
history is nothing
because oh i'm pretty sure
a Somali can joke
about Nigerians not hearing themselves
but then again
i'm just a white guy
with two Africans born of immigrants
and two immigrants
on the Bananas Bahamas..

this is the Royal Academy of Arts...
the job is simple...
£26,000 a year...
for... 16h worth of work over 2 days...
but...
Africans and Asians (not the Chinese,
of Japanese: didn't you know that Japanese
are ****?!) and GAYS...
#GIMPSFREEPALESTINE...

  so... not anyone necessarily competent
in faking and then flaking a smile?
no... none of that?
not anyone intelligent
just a racist mantra reignited
because if that **** has been
then let's return to the god of tribalism
and not any: withholding
god of the intellect when the Quran
was first scribbled down!

time for: herding the people...
it's an ugly prospect but
it's one that has been measured as occuring
countless times in history
without any real focus of entrapped
leverage of importance...

for weeks i thought myself this terrible man,
this...
ah.... but language and its own purposes
arrived and were left waiting
and i too waited: in steam and ferment
and the prospect
of a meteor
and i too decided: as *** the envious
parody of when is intellect to be envied
to be pardoned like a mutation

heart broken: heart mended:
heart broken: heart mended:

   hertz gebrochen: herz fest
   hertz gebrochen: herz fest

           Schottland!

         wurde ich geboren
                   mit einem
                         deutzschintellekt?

I see Pyramids that rise along the South Bank keep your eyes upon the locals, they'll be stripping bits of lead from these cities of the dead before you can say 'Jack Flash'

oh yes,
they'll be playing three card tricks with crazy Cheops in the crypts and
slipping 'Mickey Finns' to all his ladies in the wings,
on the South Bank you'd do well to be aware.

in the memory bank of a jellyfish:
that little microcosm of life
per se

this undisturbed avenue in evolution
kindness
electric pulse
in aqua

light travelling in no stretch
of posit
an origin E = MC (speed of light cubed,
speed of light cubed
speed of light cubed
as static, posit,
speed of light cubed,
evidently this implies
the other two letters being changed
but if there's an equation with
the speed of light squared
then there must be an equation
with the speed of light cubed...
if there isn't: or there never will be
an equation with a:    "E=M"C³

        regardless of ENERGY and MASS
but there has to be an equation
with a C³... the speed of light cubed...
if there isn't one
i'll call it yet another Dead End of Darwinism:
then clearly our intellect has
no evolved to compete
with the Insect Lady and her Talking Mushroom
Lamp...
or the Dinosaur grandiosity
brought down to lizard and bird continuity
it's as if there was no meteorite
just the ******* madness of the moo! moo!
moooooooon and seas and tides!

lost the plot of emoji and "forgot"
to place it on canvas:

thinking aloud painting
that's what poetry is
i need those symbols

like the Star of David and the *******
those drool assigns
i have

             tick tock... tick tock:
  
    卍 (tilt: // to the side: clock! clock! twist!)
because i need a reference for:
     Schläfli symbol...
                   a hexagram is not the star of david
a hexagram is not the star of david
tilt the star of david and i'll show you
a hexagram:
an opened book
and reading on a square of camel hind
in a desert
wish there were stones in a desert
and mountains
but poor me thought the deserts
were missing hills so raised mountains
blindly following love
and all purpose throughout meaning
of this shared earth: hearth...

                    at least one H in the equation
if seriously:
all these Jews want to remain post-genocidal
insecure about what's no longer
mysterious then we can flood
Europe with as much post-colonial hangovers:

but i swear: the downer comes
with: but i am stronger and of more prided
intellect than others
and for no fault of my own
am i to tell my father: hey! you!
yes! you! colonialist!
*******! **** the right: off!

         obviously the war in Ukraine
is not of the English persuasion of concern
those lax dods and sods of the "intellectual"
class not kings
not the privy council the lazy liberal ****-whats
i mean those newspaper folk
those scribblers and cobbler-wannabes
i mean those bunch of people
how mammalian flesh alight in the heat of
an argument...

smoked a joint that's marijuana
and tobacco
drank a shy whiskey sharpshooter
that's 2:1
of whiskey to coca coca
cola the ancient Indians of Paraguay
are talking
about La Bambino Bamba

in an "alternative" reality there is a journalistic
script that says:
the Euros 2024 did happen
and i saw a populism in motion
in nothing like an echo chamber
can't make the Coliseum into an Internet
Meme Echo Chamber
have to be real bro: shitz hyphen and *****
twitch at the ***** erotica of
a volcano

in an age where homosexuality is
as the supposed degeneracy of cis fibric
frombosis: phrombosis: thrombosis:

F: Fulvark: hawk: bee: buddha:
fly...
the German police were imploring
the English fans to smoke a joint
rather than drink too much beer
hey! mate! license or no t.v.
your superstars only won
a sly / shy

victory over the moon and the mood
of the Serbs:
like the victors France against
the AXIS power of the Eastern *****
and i believe
that Nietzsche a German
was adamant about what the Germans
did to the Prussians
and what the "elsewhere" didn't do
about the Estonians and the Finns
and the Lithuanians

just saying: France superstar also won
a minor victory just
a one nil
against the Eastern *****:
the Austrians are the only people
known to the Slavic people west of the Oder
and i implore you to not justify
that Darwinism has dead ends
if this supposed fixation on evolution
and then the geniuses that brought
down Pluto
i can't contest intellectual prowess to keep
feeling less and less amazed
less and less and less in awe
i just think about bread
oh and dough
and yeast
and i think: i think that i think, i think...
my soul is shattered
i have no internal breath of a coherent narrative
the German police implored the English
football fans to not altricate: articulate
the budding Serb hunger for violence
this amazing South *****
of Yugoslavia
and big boy language: i have a hairy chest...

POWER IS BLACK
POWER IS THEN GRAVITY OF NOTHING
yes, not the: that's not a misspelling
but a continuation in CApital:
power is that a drawing nearness of death
prior: impediment

in the memory bank of jellyfish:
bells of eternity - a dream of a song
of actually enjoying music
like some telekinetic hypothesis of an itchy brain
whereby a Mushroom donning a Venetian
Carnival Mask
is playing me primitive... "tunes"...
the jellyfish and perhaps our organic history
stretches into the dinosaur realm
of existence
that felt because HAD endoskeletons
but the dinosaurs didn't die
but evolved into miniatures of birds
and great hawks
and our mammal father the WHALE

but as i was smoking and drinking
an unlikely companion:
i never thought flies to be nocturnal insects
but there's always one
super-freak Beelzebub Bob and my pierced
ego my pride like a flickering light
a honing of an idea to another idea

but even if this earth once entertained
giant insects
and talking mushrooms
mammals and reptiles are pretty good
for extending our consciousness
i'm talking pre Bible imagination
much further
from Dinosaurs
that became birds
Holiest of All the Crows of Odin
and the Swans of Athena...

there was a time of giant insects
and giant insect brains
or rather the microcosm organic history
a history of body
not of stone

then i wandered outside the garden of Eden
into the Land of Ende (no, not Ened)
there's already the Den of Ned the Flander
in some Simpson
O what dark day i imagined
myself with a child watching Sunday afternoon
t.v. not able to trip out
with a scribble with a doodle not hallucinogenics
please
this ardent father

so i wish to become

so in a time of fervent homosexual pride
me loving a single mum of 55
no better *** than menopausal love
no seriously just watched how people
ugh: flake under the puppet skeleton
some flesh of 16 year old ******* proofs of
*** that are girls:

with enough perspective of time
i can speak concerning being:
there are just too many dead ends in the theory
of evolution!
you can't see the evolution of a spider
into a over-spider of an ant...
i must have brought in at least five this week
walking through the garden
they hitchhiked on my ears
into a death surface reality of moon
walking on a toothbrush and a sink
not Schindler's bread and butter emanel:
Immanuel Immanaeul:
You'll...             You'll...        and You'll Do This...

a serpent uncurled from around
the tree of knowledge
and having given birth to the fruit
in an insomnia of winding
and travelling from start to star
wriggled forward in time
ate Sisyphus
and started to clutter with a Hieroglyphs and
Chisel:

but those talking mushrooms
and giant insects would leave no traces
except for the moisture in the air
not like dinosaurs and pressed hard
black olive oil of locomotion
but instead
from such a harsh environment
with salt for water in the seas
these creatures left us
breathable air!
Nitrogen in abundance
but only enough sanity for 20% of air...

pre-dinosaur times...
   if we're going as far back as beginning
the universe...
religion can't compete, unless:
it get's a psychedelic booster JAB...
a language usage imprint
of said USER working with AI...

but if we are really going that far back:
i can look away from
belittling humanity as the currency
of NOW:
there is a currency of NOW: realistic interaction
there's the currency of ONCE:
there's the currency of IF
and the currency of...

       evidently too much Joyce... just thinking:
maybe aloud...
but certainly tripping on alcohol and marijuna
and before i die
and i'm at the stage of two hydro-cells on the brain
like Martin's like two watery
eyes
then i will create an advent of mushroom
tripping
and open my other 2 and 4
of seeing
since the eyes are an *****
unthinkable before kidney failure
or to think of eyes
are nostrils because there are 2
to think of the mouth as eyes: sensationally...
preposterous...

     ugh... but before the Dinosaurs
there were the talking mushroom overlords
and insect people
who left no skeleton proof
because they had mush inside and strength
outside
         so just the moisture in the eye
and time capsules messages
they left us hallucinogenic mushrooms
to travel back in time
past the eons of admiring those unlucky sods
the reptiles that weren't given slack
like Satan
because from dinosaurs to birds
couldn't devolve from short T-Rex hands
big mumma FI thyes thyme black girl running
so the bible is a word
from the reptiles via the mammals to
the insects and talking mushrooms
we got hit by a meteor!

           those ape mummies are toiletry
such idiots
chaos ensues no natural set order
this will not continue i'm sure of it
how warm the intellect
but what if lizard people had a chance
to boil water in a kettle... too!
but we are just their locomotive juice
to ******* UBER their groceries
from 100 meters away!

there are dead ends in Darwinism
just to clarify
thanks for collecting all the species
but let's put the Lament Configuration
back together:
these are: dead ends... don't you think?
will an ant evolve into a super ant?
will man evolve into a superman?
will humanity ever congregate at a major
sporting event as a count
of individuals or as a disintegration
of rigid formula that might disqualify
an ethnocentric identification process:
of evolutionary scrutiny
of not seeing the details in bedtime stories
something to scare the children with?

dead ends: static: evolution is not exactly
dynamic:
it's a Dead Science...
biology is as much a study of stones
in the miasma of mountain
but still minerals in the blood
and the pulling and pushing apart: toward
a together...

happiest so: alone...
regressing: so my love is bad but two
men and a third by himself
crossdressing to X his mother
and that's mammalian grip is
insufferable
but if history begins with volcanoes
and Dinosaurs
maybe i don't want to think about
a shortcut via the Sumerians
because: apart from the Egyptian
phonetic encoding
sharing Europe with Africans
is like: calling the Neighbors of the Continent:
Slavs the stupid Inquisitors of Communism
of Yiddish Intellect
not Hebrew not Israeli
maybe the Bilingual Monstrosities of the Yids
had to be stamped out
for the raising of Israel...
maybe? don't you think?

well it would certainly help some
countries to get on the Bilingual Ladder
like it would be great
for America to become a Bilingual Nation
a grander Switzerland
a bigger Canada
a marriage of Spanish and English
would only cement a superpower
while we could have a marriage
of the Slavs with the Germans
since the French and Especially the English
have outright rejected the Germans
at least the Austrians could soften the blow
and i could too...

my my how i love using such big words
relating to people
but mind you i was hypervigilant
on the point of paranoia
at the Champions League Final
talking to German Secret Police
at Wembley...

and that's a true story
i was also outside the one talking to youths
when the cordon on Spanish Steps
was put on by the bettered
coordination of Police with Security
Staff...
the soft police can you imagine
a police officer writing a poem,
would anyone read it?
perhaps thinking about the Club of Fetishes -
some time to relax
but i just want vanilla and juicy
and plump of plumb...

that's my girl: right there...
and like a ******* at a gay pride parade
let me do my:
Uncle Paradiso:
          Sam Smith'oh Unholy:
in the vinyl store i just heard: BAHBYHLON:

mommy don't know...
yeah: i was at the "£ body shop £"
paid £130 for giving a 20 year old
Romanian ******* a massage
after she was spanked to a glitter of blueberry
on the *** with rough love rough love
lion love i am the crab: pick up
soft spoons soft metal

happy to ******* a priest...
happy to ******* a priest...
happy to make a priest a Hashem: Kosher: Halal...
happy to make a priest a kosher
ooze: then some SALT!

salz salz! and the piper of pepper!
salz salz! and the piper of pepper!

different spirits agree with me:
others don't:
we can agree to disagree as the clitche goes...

today i was supposed to finish
at 9pm
i finished at 8:10pm
in the car park with the away coatches
all the way from
2nd London:
that is Manchester
in terms of spirit...
not in terms of numbers: not so dearest
Brimingham:
let the cities talk as if they were
free from the state!
let Manchester become a city-state!
let it build up its walls
let it become the Troy i want to have
when i leave:
London can burn
but i want my heart to be burried in Manchester...

coincidenses...
no such thing: enough coincidences and you
get Cambodian: MA-GIC!

i switched temperaments i switched humors
i switched from whiskey
to *****
and everything became i'm high: REAL
i got a real pusher of the American finest "tobacoo"
and i as:
Ken: totem: shove that stinker in there:
in some wood:
keep the **** in scented wood
thje doctors are becoming suspicious
nervous
having a *******
about Oedipus Schizophrenic-Android-Altruism
of... off.. Atheist: the Lombard
Crusader Simple tonne of Simples:
Ar'Gs...
  Argentinians:                       (atheism, solipsism,
                                  autism...)

civil army: i work with armny veterans
i'm not a Charles HARLEM HAREM
Bukowski:
the grin reaper of lonely women
whos loves didn't come back from the beaches
of Normandy:
like the women prior
whos men didn't come back from the trenches...
i don't work in a prison:
just a civilian army...
and this ******* pencil-sharpener of a "doctor"
from Poland
had the audacity to play the "doctor"
and the DWP pencil pusher:
i watched the Green Mile
because i wanted to see...
not the execution of the repentant Cain
but the Prideful Abel:
finally resurrected and so vicious resurrected
as a woman...
and men as portraying women
on the screen: but not in theatre of opera:
the world is intact there:
i rewatched the Green Mile
because of Mr Jingles...
oh the ghosts and the spiritless that live among
you and crab bucket you into darkness

Coronation Street
before my time apparently:
oh: grandpa knows the world: WOKE!
his is ich spreschen detuszche
stationed on the Falklands:
made redundant now drives Manchester
Stewards...
so the Bennies...
wha?! the Falklnaders were always there?
did i fear correctly?
painting colours on penguins the ones
that fall over
go back to the nest
and you get aces and the races
British soliders passing time
if i were there: passing time...

MAnchester incoming LOndon answered:
there is a cohesion to mind:
state cities:
there are many citities within the confines
of the Christia-Jewry-n of the City of London
that the Arabs are infiltrating
because i see the perishing god of money
that's where Mammon was crucified
in Islam...
because Islam doesn't believe in usury...
and Ezra my Essex of the Pound
5 books is difficult:
10... i need 10 books...
at least two that i haven't read in English
and at least one in Polish
but i'm finishing at least five books at once...
i found the bibliophiles asset of parasite
in worms...
i moved beyond snakes
i only believe in the stelar symbiosis
between man and worms
i am armed with wormed about to stage
fright fights with serpents
and streets and dragons
and ladders...

Dad's Army: motto: let us disperse the world!
we travelled almost everywhere:
let us be the beacon and the baton
this New Greece
that's England...
let us become ground zero:
let us accept Rome thrived... preserved itself...
like Greece...
let us free ourselves:
the Celts the ******* Romans
then the Saxons then the Danes?

the Finns are weird
the Norwegians discovered Iceland
and America
the Danes sailed west to find England
the Swedes went east and found
Byzantine: dropping ***** as they went...
Goths and Vandlas...
the ******* children that invaded Rome:
it can happen again...
if you wish it...
there are plenty of *** starved young men out
there:
i don't care to have a persuasion...
to deal in these matters...

my cat woke me up at4:30am
couldn't go back to sleep:
music? what music?!
SMNR: whatever that acronym stands for:
i would rather listen to the sound
of rain against a tent:
then rain hilt: on a tin roof...
then rain and thunder
then the sound of crashing waves...
i don't care for music
i already know not to care for sport
i was working with one  WAGWAN
woman... and some African gremlin (sized)
one...

i still care about music
the Green Mile:
but i was there for the Percy Wetmore
transformation:
such a simple Christ
picture...
no more agonizing paradoxes
O: oculus per oculus...
no: you first: thirst: turn the other cheek!
burying naked feet...

i wasn't there for the graces, and god...:

Braille: came the "despots": i need a library
if i'll be moving to Kauiai...
i need a library...

i pay my dew with dues:
should my doctor be my ogliest
U... huel: bananna flavor...
400kcal... but the amount of protein...
then this evening:
because by now the night:
a bunch of children walking against
me
until one voice made
Dasein: there's concern to be had
about being conscious, mortal, alive...

because i was pushed to the side:
but i understood:
the necessary ****
of crowd of *****
and one only one of a billion
experiencing the burden and pardon
of atomized consciousness...
as ***** then ape then man
wow!
what closet of history to be having
to have to keep...

i switched from whiskey to *****...
my temperament is stricter: wiser:
more prone to acknowledging self-mistaking
self-propeller with self-block-blockage-also-alias-a-self.

new *****: artsian spelling my-stakes:
mistakes...
away from rye and whiskers, mrs.:
party boy drinks only *****
alone...
prayer boy drinks whiskey straight: at a party:
please don't confuse or conflate
my CIS-HUBRIS
         ooh: the 007 chills!

Depression down
Depression in
Sleep. Rest. Swedes and Finns.

           King of the Road ...

what a strange affair...
affair without any cheating:
that Napoleon would mind
a person knowing two tonnes worth of tongue
and say:
that man is worth two people...
but a polyglot?
how can a polyglot suprass a bilingualism
with the schizophrenic underpass?
a polymath in the Napoleonic dynamic
is not something matched by a
a monolingual Hitlerite dynamic...
today...
at work... i experienced a hot air balloon:
sort of...
i was talking with two women
in "higher positions"...
chess is chess: king is pawn and pawn
is king
and queen is rook, is bishop:
i prefer backgammon to chess
because i like to strike by chance...
but the would-be-overlords
noticed that:
why are these women touching my face:
of feel my lowering body temperature...
feel my cold hands:
are your cheeks hot enough...
rub rub: snub snub...
i overhear and then i just:
don't, ******* hear...
            but as a bilingual you have:
twinned agendas...
as a polyglot: you reserve the right
for the one tongue proponent:
Napoleon would say:
we only have use for spies
with only two tongues...
anything beyond two tongues is
lost in polymathy...
and we don't want that...
so Napoleon tried to conquer Russia:
******: attempted the same...
no sooner than they realised:
there's the attempt at
the iceberg of Greek...
why would these women give me
their frozen hands
like skeletons
touching my cheeks...
why would they?
must i really tell my spouse my would
be...
that... it's all savvy and gold
and Baker Street is my favorite
underground station...
at least with bilignualism
you don't get the confusion
of bi-sexuality...
n'est ce pas?

               when would be *****
start touching your face you hardly go
ego tripping and fishing:
oh: well, with this arrived in the world
and the lesbians want to touch you beard
to test: ****! shiesse ist reel!
then then Finns come and all becomes
nightly, quiet...

but why would these women touch my face:
stroke my beard:
i want to go to sleep!
Napoleon only asked for a man knowing two tongues:
two agendas:
a polyglot is a genius reserved for the Hebrew faction
of endeavor...
by the time you speak 7 tongues...
you can't speak 2 tongues in divergence...
you can't:
a polyglot is not...
worth establishing a dualism-schizophrenia...
a bilingualism all-put-together...

the rattle snake
is my icecubes shifting in my glass of
emptying with only ***** and no mixer...
but these would be *****:
i managed to feed one standing in the rain
with me:
a dirsty burger: sweet onions,
bacon, cheese, the half of the calf of Egypt
some Egyptian bun...
but still the teasing of the hands:
how cold are we: are we: are we?
must you touch my face to
but if a woman asks: and also: doesn't ask:
i'm more than willing to comply to her
asking...

there's a suggestion:
the bilingual overcomes the polyglot
because there's a two tow tongue to juggle..
but i'm no polymath:
to the extremes, though:
what becomes societally fucntionally:
useful... Russia ought to know;
England; apparently; doesn't!

hey presto, hey Jude! don't sing...
a bad song... for me to ever... forget..
you were singing more than
equipped in bingo-eureka: sorry... thought went
missing in no longer kept oughts.

why would would be lesbians start
feeling my temperature of my hands
then my face...
like... my ****** partner has elevated ******
jeallusy to a ******* zenith...
i sent her some wild p.s. messages
and she snores like my mother
and i can't contain her...
and i want her to be least constrained
but she just pushes and pushes
this child that will never be
and if that's the case... hey presto Edie:
i'm both the father and the son:
of my myself:
the holy ghost comes in the format
of looking at wild animals!

My angels know their demons
My demons know their twins
Which ones will is stronger?
Which ones will will wins?
Took a boat from Stockholm
Sang for Swedes and Finns
The Dark Knight always rises
After Batman he Begins

                     Chicago!

With her I was honest
Talents and troubled sins

Often I'm quite hopeless
Which is where real hope begins

Shakespeare he wrote Hamlet
He also fathered twins

I like rhyming couplets
And the Swedes. And the Finns.

more waiting
washing dishes
rest
begin again

just one afternoon
Helsinki with the Finns

tacos on my mind
tomatoes, onions, Rose
do a little drive
so it goes, now you knows

Robertson Davies
Toronto throws

               Precision prose